


Renegades V Perfections Cry

by gothikuk



Series: Renegades saga [5]
Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen, Gore, Heresy, Multi, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 47,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothikuk/pseuds/gothikuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>IT IS A PERIOD OF CIVIL WAR. REBEL SPACESHIPS, LED BY THE FORMER IMPERIAL WARMASTER HORUS, ARE BEGINNING THEIR CAMPAIGNS AGAINST THE CORRUPTED IMPERIUM OF MAN.</p>
<p>AGAINST THEM, THE NIGH-IMMORTAL EMPEROR WAITS ON HIS GOLDEN THRONE. ALLIED WITH HIM ARE THE FOUR CHAOS GODS, ELDRITCH NIGHTMARES THIRSTING FOR HUMAN SUFFERING. THE SPACE MARINES, ONCE THE IMPERIUM’S FINEST SOLDIERS, ARE DIVIDED. FROM HIS MIGHTY WARSHIP, THE PRIDE OF THE EMPEROR, FULGRIM LEADS HIS LEGION TOWARDS EVER-CHANGING IDEALS OF PERFECTION. MEANWHILE, IN THE GALACTIC EAST, ROBOUTE GUILLIMAN, ALLIED WITH THE RENEGADE WARMASTER, CONSTRUCTS THE CORE OF A NEW GALACTIC EMPIRE.</p>
<p>THE SCREAMS AND PLEAS OF THE INNOCENT WILL HAVE NO EFFECT ANYMORE. THE AGE OF DEBATE AND ENLIGHTENMENT IS OVER. THE DREAM OF EMPIRE HAS ENDED.</p>
<p>THE NIGHTMARE HAS BEGUN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this arc of the Renegades Saga was written by Vulkansnodosaurus over on Heresy Online. I am reposting it with kind permission.

PROLOGUE

The light was dim in the Hall of Rites. It had been some time since the Andronius had been back to Chemos to recruit new warriors. That time, Ancient Rylanor of the Emperor’s Children hoped, would come again soon; it was necessary a year ago.

Two warriors now stood in front of him, though they were not new recruits by any measure. To Rylanor’s left stood Lord Commander Eidolon; to his right, the equally ranked Vespasian. Both were more magnificent than ever in armor rather too decorated for Rylanor’s preference; odd, jarring sigils littered it. Off to the side, Rylanor could see First Captain Julius Kaesoron in even more convoluted plate.

“Why have I been awoken?” Rylanor rumbled.

“Times have changed,” Vespasian answered.

“It was considered necessary to inform you,” Eidolon added.

Rylanor groaned. “Is Fulgrim still our lord? Do we still serve the Emperor? Is our aim still perfection?”

“Of course,” echoed both Lord Commanders.

“Then I will stay here and maintain my vigil over the fallen.”

Fabius Bile’s modifications to the Third Legion’s gene-seed had had a massive detrimental effect on recruitment. Casualty rates had gone beyond all reasonable bounds. It was Rylanor’s fault as much as Bile’s, though; a closer watch could have saved many of those Initiates.

He had failed. Not as gravely as Fabius- though the Apothecary, to his knowledge, still had Primarch Fulgrim’s favor due to his alterations’ effectiveness- but too deeply for a perfect Legion nevertheless.

Vespasian and Kaesoron accepted the refusal and walked off, their slow footsteps echoing across the massive hall. Eidolon stayed. “The Emperor,” he said, “has made certain… changes.”

“What is hanging below your chin?” Rylanor inquired out of honest curiosity. The organ looked like a deadly disease of some kind; if the Dreadnought’s cameras were right, it was actually hanging out of the Lord Commander’s power armor through a dissolved hole.

“Apothecary Bile has bettered me. I feel sorry for you, truly; your organic body will never be improved by his touch.”

“I never thought I would be glad I have died once, but you have led me to that. Well done. Now GET OUT!” Rylanor roared the last two words, trying to put as much of his righteous fury into them as possible. It worked- Eidolon rushed from the hall, which shook with Rylanor’s scream. Its vibrations produced a harsh music of their own, echoing Rylanor’s rage over and over.

Insulting an elder was never acceptable, especially not with Eidolon’s flippancy. But worse, Eidolon was not lying. The Commander was truly glad Bile had worked his horrors on him. And when Rylanor remembered the sight of the other two Astartes, he recognized Kaesoron and Vespasian had accepted the modifications too, albeit less of them.

What was Fabius doing to the captains? What was he doing to the Legion? In past times, Rylanor would have contacted the Primarch with such problems, but now it seemed even Fulgrim’s judgment was clouded.

With no answers, Rylanor turned back to the marble statues that he had spent painstaking months creating- marble statues of the neophytes whose would never become Children of the Emperor due to his folly.

“Tasober,” he muttered, “Apkalus, Olastalil….”


	2. Chapter 2

Captain Erikon Gaius, Twenty-First Company, Second Chapter, Thirteenth “Ultramarines” Legion, was still shocked by the events of the past few months.

There were a lot of details- the initial gathering, the news of Venus IX, Horus’ first decision of rebellion, Prospero. It was not official outside the Legion’s highest ranks; it was not announced; it was rarely talked about. But, more and more, it was becoming clear: the Ultramarines were betraying the Emperor of Mankind.

Gaius wasn’t certain how he felt about that. While Roboute Guilliman was choosing to follow Warmaster Horus over his father, Gaius had been crusading against orks in the Argent Stars. He had only recently been recalled, along with the entire Second Chapter, to meet with the Third and the oversized First under the command of Marius Gage. Ultramar would be an empire once more, a counterpart to Terra.

For the most part, Gaius believed the reports. For the most part, he simply couldn’t imagine anything besides those tales of worlds burned and cultures exterminated that could turn Guilliman away from his father. For the most part, he trusted his gene-father’s judgment that the Emperor had simply gone too far.

But the seed of doubt was there, as it rarely was for Gaius. And it was for that reason, more than any other, that Captain Erikon Gaius was immensely glad his duties were to be purely defensive.

He was walking now towards the Chapter Master’s throne. No other from his company was present; Akrit Honoria of the 23rd walked to his left. Gaius could see his own hesitation reflected on Honoria’s features, and the other Captain’s wary glance told him that, perhaps, Honoria was even more paranoid now than Gaius.

“Brother-Captain Honoria,” Gage greeted the arrivals. “Brother-Captain Gaius.”

The Captains bowed.

“I am sure you have heard the rumors,” Gage stated. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much more than rumors. The Primarch has commanded us to fortify Ultramar, for it appears the Emperor has betrayed the Imperium.”

“The Emperor is the Imperium,” Honoria argued.

“Then,” Gage said, “let it be known that the Emperor has betrayed humanity. On a dozen worlds, first among them Prospero, we hear of Astarte Legions attacking civilians and destroying entire planets. The Emperor is unwilling to discuss the subject. Horus has risen in rebellion. Our Primarch has done the only moral thing and sided with the Warmaster, though victory seems doubtful. But while he leads the majority of the Legion- including several Companies from my own Chapter- to war against the Word Bearers, a conflict without precedent, a conflict that is nevertheless a practical and not a seditious theoretical, we are left here.”

“To mind the fort,” Gaius completed.

“To mind and expand the fort. Ultramar will grow, I am certain; Ultramar must grow. Here the core of an Imperium Secundus will be forged.” Gage looked at the Captains intently. “We have no theoretical for this course of action- we never could. So make one. The two of you and your companies are responsible for the Carenn sector.” Gage waited for questions for at most a second before nodding. “Dismissed.”

Gaius and Honoria exited silently, though only until Gage’s ship was left behind. Gage was far from ostentatious, and in fact reserved a specific contempt for rich trophy rooms; his ship was similarly spartan. The throne itself was pure, almost certainly uncomfortable plasteel.

“Well,” Honoria said upon exiting, “that was interesting.”

Gaius felt the question he now had was absolutely vital. “Will you side with the Primarch?”

He tried to keep his voice questioning, though he knew his own side.

“Yes,” Honoria said, “because I will not be a traitor to the Legion. But I’ve had moments of doubt.”

“We all have,” Gaius said with tangible relief.

“The margin was narrow. But you needn’t worry; if I had sided with the Emperor, I would’ve killed the First Chapter Master then and there. My mind is made up, and nothing will move it. What about yours?”

Gaius’ first instinct was to react with anger, but he knew it would be a lie. His own mind was made up for Guilliman- he thought. But there were too many variables he wasn’t aware of to be sure.

The Captains flew in silence until- when the shuttle was about to dock- Honoria finally stated where he was going.

“I’ll be on Seb. You can take care of Carenn itself. Leave a few Marines on every world south of Jesta. And like Gage said, run abundant theoreticals.”

Gaius simply nodded as Honoria, on the spaceport’s slick floor, marched off to the shuttle that would take him to his own vessel. For his part, he waited a few moments, then marched towards the surface shuttle. Perhaps talking to Carenn’s current governor would calm the confusion that was making inroads into his psyche.

Probably not, though.

The second shuttle was almost torturously slow in its descent to Carenn’s surface. One of the westerly planets within the five hundred worlds of Ultramar, Carenn was a Hive World of towering spires and great, barren plains. It was a world of Ultramar, and so it was not in the squalid condition that so many of the Imperium’s Hive Worlds existed in- a lower layer filled with criminals, several upper levels inhabited by increasingly rich people fleeing from the aforementioned criminals. Indeed, as one of only a few Hive Worlds in Ultramar, it was often the site of visits by Chapter Masters or the Primarch himself.

In general, Guilliman discouraged the building of large Hives; though popular in the wider Imperium, the Ultramarine Primarch considered them recipes for disaster. There was little else to do on Carenn, though- it was too far from its sun and too dry to be much of an agricultural world, and there were no useful deposits inside it to mine.

As it was, constant communication with at least one Agri-World was required to keep Carenn from starving. Fortunately, there were several in the vicinity.

To distract himself from the potential- no, real- betrayal that his Legion was committing, Gaius considered how he would reorganize the sector. Having the capital at Carenn made sense. Most enemies would not be interested in quickly capturing Hive Worlds- they held little short-term strategic importance, except as places where a lot of innocents could be killed quickly, which- consistent as it was with the Imperium’s current policy- was not a valid strategic aim. Agri- and Forge-worlds were more typical targets.

Gaius sketched out how he would place the void shields and citywide defense systems. Carenn was not built for warfare, and thus presented an interesting challenge; nevertheless, by the time Gaius arrived at the palace, he had a rough plan of what he was fairly certain was the optimal placement. Orbital bombardment would have minimal effect under the system, and the enemy would be forced to take severe losses in a foot or bike assault.

The Captain was rather satisfied with his calculations. Carenn, under this system, was virtually untakeable, especially the center of the hives where an evacuation would send the people. And though the alterations would be expensive, they would make the planet an ideal location for a military base- not a bad idea in any case.

Gaius thus landed happy and, mentally humming Macragge’s anthem, headed towards the governor’s palace- fairly successfully, despite bumping into a couple of clerks on the way.

Governor Itacia Remasna’s office was open. Gaius wasn’t sure how sturdy the door was, so he walked in without knocking.

The governor- an elderly, spectacled woman who clearly had taken a fair amount of rejuv treatments in the past, putting her quite possibly at older than Gaius himself- growled at the Marine’s entrance. Carenn was, in principle, a republic; but the Lord (or Lady) Ruler was elected for life, which could be… exploited… with the right technology.

“Here to relieve me of my duties, are you?” Remasna asked, her voice more screeching than any other Gaius had encountered anywhere.

“Er-”

That single word, combined with a slight arm motion, caused two precariously balanced meter-tall stacks of paper to topple, leaving about twenty.

“Astartes, you say. Superhuman, you say. Taking our jobs! I’ve guided Carenn through rich and poor for seventy-five years, and here you come and expect to just take over without comment.”

People like this, Gaius recognized, were what kept Ultramar running. Besides, he didn’t specialize in civil governance anyhow, so he blurted out- before Gex could really roll into her rant- a loud “Wait!”.

The governor paused, and Gaius clarified, “I’m only here as a defense advisor at most.”

The governor looked slightly shocked, then shrugged. “Then by all means! Come and defend us! From what, anyhow? Isn’t the Imperium supposed to be safe?”

“Civil war,” Gaius explained. He didn’t go into any more detail; old people were usually more conservative, and the last thing he needed was a rebellious governor.

The ancient woman made no reply and restarted filling in papers at her desk. Gaius was amazed at the speed- she was quite clearly reading everything that came her way, but at her rate the stacks in the room would be done in two hours at most.

“Well?” she asked after a couple minutes. “Are you going to make a suggestion or are you going to leave? Jakane is going to bring more papers in in a minute.”

Wondering about the government’s deviations from his theoretical, Gaius briefly explained his plan to the governor. Itacia Remasna did not seem to understand much and said only that she had her own defense advisor, with whom Gaius should confer, but that if Carenn really was in danger there was no sum she wouldn’t give.

“But still,” she said at the end, “I rather regret that Carenn must become a fortress.”

And Gaius stayed silent, for he knew that every other world in the sector- every other world in Ultramar- would have to become a fortress too.


	3. Chapter 3

The Pride of the Emperor had changed, Marius Vairosean noted.

He was walking the Triumphal Way with the Brother-Captain of the Second Company, Solomon Demeter. Vairosean himself headed the Third Company of the Emperor’s Children, the Third Company of the Third Legion; there was an honor in that he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Months ago, on the bloody world of Laeran, Vairosean had been bogged down in heavy fighting and failed to meet his objective in the final, decisive battle of the campaign. It was his shame, shared among the Emperor’s Children only, perhaps, by Ancient Rylanor. But while the Dreadnought had little control over the malfunctioning of Initiates’ experimental implants, strategy was Vairosean’s life.

“Are you stuck in your head again, Marius?” Demeter asked him.

The Second Captain was a good friend, but sometimes he was simply exasperating.

“Solomon,” Vairosean said, “I failed. The Phoenician does not tolerate that.”

“It’s true- Fulgrim doesn’t tolerate failure.” It really was- recently, Lord Commander Verona of the Third Legion’s intelligence arm had been executed for a disastrous operation on the world of Racas. It was deserved, and Vairosean didn’t think his failure was as deep; but the element of fear was there.

“So why,” Captain Demeter asked, “has the Primarch not even censured you? Why are you still in his inner circle? I didn’t reach the temple on Laeran either, if you remember.”

“You couldn’t- your transport crashed!”

“And you encountered impossible resistance. Would you have sacrificed half your Company to get to the temple, brother?”

“I didn’t have to. I’ve ran simulations-”

“With information you didn’t have at the time.”

Vairosean loudly sighed. Demeter didn’t understand, but how could he explain? Ever since the failure on Laeran, he had been in need of redemption.

He refused the implants of Fabius Bile, alone among the Legion’s Captains- he needed to regain his honor himself, without the aid of Fabius’ modifications. Bile was a Lord Commander now, and Fulgrim seemed to spend most of his time with the Apothecary; but Vairosean had received special dispensation not to receive implants until he had proven his worth.

As for Demeter, the Second Captain had received a couple implants to make his feet faster, but had refused Bile’s more radical surgeries outright. He looked as he always did- short hair, tan skin, wide features that seemed to suggest profound emotion even when Demeter wasn’t feeling any.

“You notice the changes,” Demeter noted with a bitter mirth, “don’t you?”

Vairosean did, in fact, see the changes. The Triumphal Way was still decorated with statues of Legion heroes and remembrancers’ paintings, but the black columns were now multicolored and the honor guard was halved. The departed Astartes were replaced by spears with mangled skulls of fallen enemies on them.

“It almost feels like a Space Wolf ship,” Vairosean observed.

“Or a World Eater one. Though neither of those Legions have much appreciation for art.”

Vairosean nodded, still largely lost in thought. The Legion was changing; the Imperium was changing. That was normal, and the command hierarchy of the Emperor’s Children, at least, was still unbroken; but the Captain heard other Legions had been forced to conduct purges. Yet others- among them, tragically, Horus’ Luna Wolves and Sanguinius’ Blood Angels- had refused to accept the changes and rebelled completely.

The Ultramarines had, too. The Legion that Vairosean considered the greatest (besides, of course, his own) had turned its back on the Emperor, beloved by all, and joined the Warmaster’s rebellion. It was almost impossible to believe, but the Third Captain knew it to be true.

“But I don’t think,” Demeter stated as the Captains came up to the Phoenix Gate, “that Verona should’ve been killed.”

“It was the Primarch’s decision,” Vairosean said.

Then, almost suddenly, the Captains arrived at the Phoenix Gate.

“Captain Solomon Demeter.”

“Captain Marius Vairosean.”

“Both admitted,” said the Phoenix Guard at the doors, and slowly they swung open.

Fulgrim had, apparently, decided to bring his senior Captains closer together, as the Brotherhood of the Phoenix was meeting more and more often. Lucius of the 13th and Saul Tarvitz of the 10th were the newest to be admitted into the warrior-lodge. Others sat closer to the Primarch; the nearest were Lord Commanders Eidolon, Vespasian, and Fabius. The chairs behind them were reserved for First Captain Julius Kaesoron, Demeter, and Vairosean himself. There were other seats, too- Daimon of the Eighth, Krysander of the Ninth, Damas Axalian of the 29th, Korander of the 37th, and others, seated in rings around the throne at the center of the Heliopolis. That throne was as yet unoccupied- Fulgrim always showed up precisely at the time of the gathering, but none of the officers wanted to face the Primarch’s wrath for arriving late.

Demeter and Vairosean silently took their seats. A few minutes later, Julius Kaesoron rushed in and hurriedly sat down himself. The Brotherhood of the Phoenix was now almost gathered- the only remaining member missing was the Primarch himself.

And then, slowly, majestically, the Phoenician entered the room.

He was clad in full violet battle-plate. An ivory cloak billowed in the artificial wind. His perfect face was uncovered, and he held no weapons; yet none who looked at him could possibly conclude he was anything but a god of war.

Fulgrim took his throne.

It was Eidolon that broke the brief silence. “Well,” he said, “where are we going next, lord?”

“The Great Crusade must continue,” Fulgrim simply declared. “We are currently in Warp transit to the rebellious Unbroken Stars, from where we will continue to the equally traitorous Ultramar.”

Ultramar.

“It will be tragic to destroy a realm so close to perfection,” Vairosean said, with a softness he could not control. “If Guilliman had not betrayed the Emperor, beloved by all…”

“Then our job would be a lot easier,” Vespasian concluded. “But the Ultramarines are traitors, and that proves their flaw.”

“Their arrogance is astounding,” Daimon observed. “With five hundred planets under their control, they think they can defeat an Imperium that owns hundreds of thousands of worlds?”

“Karas etnom le garikul; karas arokafratz in bul,” Julius Kaesoron quoted. “Names are feared; but a foe one has not considered terrorizes no one. The Imperium of Man is not what they need to fear- the Imperial Army and our Legions are.”

“We all know,” Tarvitz said with an intangible air of regret, “that each of us would follow our Primarch to the end of the universe; of course we will go to Ultramar. And of course we will triumph, given that Guilliman’s Legion is still crusading.”

“Yes,” Demeter noted, “but there’s an unrelated question I wanted to ask. Who put up the skulls in the Triumphal Way and why?”

“Eidolon did,” Fulgrim said.

The Lord Commander gave a small smile. “Are skulls not as much a symbol of our victories as paintings? And are they not, also, art, given my modifications?”

“What about the reduction of the guard?” Demeter pressed, likely emboldened by the lack of open hostility to his previous question.

Fulgrim shrugged, though like everything else he did the movement was epic. “Fewer volunteers. It is a rather boring duty, after all, and anyone who attempts to board this ship will be sorely disappointed anyhow.”

That was a proud statement, but try as he might Vairosean couldn’t think of anyone who could board an Astarte Legion flagship and win. The exception was, as always, other Astartes; but the Pride was among the most powerful vessels in the Imperium, even when compared to its brothers.

Captain Demeter nodded, suddenly almost sorry. “I apologize if I offended you, father; I was merely curious.”

The Second Captain’s disapproval was evident, but his honesty was equally clear. Vairosean imagined all men must be so transparent to one such as Rylanor; but Demeter’s openness was unique in that it was painfully obvious, and painfully charismatic, to all who saw it.

Vairosean, in all honesty, shared Demeter’s distaste; but the decorations of the Pride of the Emperor were beautiful, and would probably be beautiful even if they were painted in pus and built of feathers. What concerned him more was the guard. It was a tradition, and order required tradition.

“There was a time when guarding the Triumphal Way was seen as an honor,” he carefully noted.

“Honor, aye,” Dasara of the 25th said, “but things are changing.”

Fulgrim nodded. “It is possible to reach perfection in standing and beautifully holding a weapon; yet it is much more worthwhile to reach perfection in using it. Times are changing indeed, Vairosean, and I would like you to be among those at my side as they do.”

“I always will be,” Vairosean stated.

“Then why,” Eidolon attacked, “have you still not received Commander Fabius’ augmentations?”

Fabius opened his mouth to protest, perhaps to say he had enough willing volunteers as it was- he had used that argument no less than thrice before- but Vairosean waved him to silence. “I will accept the implants after my next victory,” he declared.

It was as if a weight had been lifted off his feet. It was something he had to do, sooner or later. And he would put the past behind him yet. He had, after all, done it before.

The Phoenician’s face filled with radiant content. “So be it,” he said. “The Third and Twenty-Fifth will fight on Slodi in the first battle of the Unbroken Stars campaign, both with individual strategic control. And I do expect victory, Marius. Victory and perfection.”

“I can allow myself to give nothing less,” Marius said.

There were some quick words after that, several congratulations, but the campaign was a few days off yet and the Legion would not yet feast in honor of the victory to come. The gathering ended on the highest note Vairosean had felt in some time. It was only as he exited that he felt the cold eyes of Commander Fabius glued to him and a slight chill- a tiny sliver of the fear Astartes were not supposed to feel- ran down his back.

He did not greet any other Captains on the way out, instead turning from the Triumphal Way to find his Company. They had felt the same shame as their Captain after Laeran; they had spent the same number of months practicing swordplay and strategy. They would be as uplifted by news of the Slodi deployment as Vairosean. The Third Company had not sat idle since the failure on the atoll world, but they had never been deployed in full and never independently.

“Gather in the Triple Hall,” he voxed his sergeants and staff. “I bring good tidings.”

For his own part, he stopped in his quarters before the Triple Hall. They were clean and organized, though richly decorated; most of the paintings on the walls were realistic depictions of Terra. All the paintings, save a couple made by artists recently assigned to the fleet, predated Laeran; besides being Vairosean’s own shame, that planet changed those humans that had depicted it. Many of the Astartes, and all of the Remembrancers, who had seen the central temple had been affected by gases within. The Phoenician had explained to the Lord Commanders and the first three Captains that the effect was of the god Slaanesh and that there was nothing bad about it; but Vairosean could not look at or listen to the works of artists who had seen Laeran without being reminded of a flaming wreck.

Admittedly, the effect had been worse on first exposure, and now Vairosean could at least bear post-Laeran works. Still, as he put on his armor, his eyes took in Voyage of the Kartella- a legendary painting of the first human ship to arrive in the Chemos sector. It was the oldest work in the Third Captain’s collection, dating back two millennia.

Once ready, Vairosean marched into the hexagonal Triple Hall. Three massive marble columns supported a richly decorated ceiling, painted entirely in varying shades of violet. In the center a huge statue of the Emperor, recently completed by Fleet remembrancer Ostian Delafour (who had, due to unclear circumstances, not visited Laeran and thus still produced great work), stood behind Vairosean’s throne.

Most of the Company was already gathered; 100.34 seconds after the Captain entered, the last member of Squad Terogil hurried in, and Vairosean began his brief speech.

“Third Company! Today the Phoenician himself, Lord Fulgrim, has deigned to grant us an opportunity to redeem ourselves after Laeran. Today he has assigned to us the honor of fighting on the planet of Slodi, alongside- but independently of- our brothers in the Twenty-Fifth.”

A great cheer went up as Marines slowly, individually understood what had been promised, knocking its way across the Company.

“We will fight well, of that I have no doubt. But the Phoenician expects nothing less than perfection. We must give it to him! I will upload the operation specifics to the Company database. Train well; mankind needs you. Children of the Emperor!”

“Death to his foes!” the Company echoed, this time as one.

They began to file out immediately; Vairosean was among the first. Sergeant Terogil tried to get up to the Captain to apologize, but Vairosean waved it away; he was not the Primarch, and he did not get offended at minor lateness. It would be hypocritical, to say the least.

He returned not to his quarters but to the simulator room and began to replay, for the hundredth time, the operation on Laeran, though this time he fought with a concrete determination he had previously lacked, in the light of the coming victory. When he succeeded- against resistance twice as difficult as he’d actually faced- he picked up his best blade and headed toward the dueling cages.

For hours on hours, Captain Marius Vairosean fought ceaselessly.

And around him, the galaxy changed.


	4. Chapter 4

Marius Gage stood in the hall of the Vengeful Spirit, watching demigods argue.

“Roboute,” Warmaster Horus Lupercal said, “I have nothing but respect for you. But you can at least wait to divide up power until we’ve won this war!”

“I’m not trying to grab power, brother. That’s the last thing I want to do! I’m merely trying to quantify what we’re fighting for.”

“We all know what we’re fighting for,” the Warmaster said with a sigh. “The ideals of the Great Crusade- enlightenment, justice, order. Ever since our father forsook them….”

Guilliman obviously couldn’t continue the debate, so he merely nodded, a hint of tears in his eyes, and quickly exited with Gage.

“Well,” he said as they walked towards the shuttle, “that could’ve gone better.”

“What was your goal,” Gage asked, suddenly curious, “in reality? Did you just want a constitution to spell out Horus’ power, or-”

“A republic,” the Ultimate Warrior said.

They were silent until the shuttle, at which point Guilliman continued, “A republic. What right do we have to rule people- humans!- that do not desire it? Conquest is one thing, but we should not act like conquerors on our own soil.”

“Not so long ago, you were proposing replacing the governors with Astartes,” Gage noted, his curiosity and mild confusion not satisfied with Guilliman’s response. “What changed?”

It was a bold question to pose to one’s Primarch; but Gage was the First Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, second in command to Guilliman himself, and the Ultimate Warrior was far less choleric than most of his brothers.

“Father changed,” Gage’s Primarch answered. “When I met him, I had plans to turn Ultramar into a republic; but he said we were more than human and able to rule without the threat of corruption.” Guilliman let out a short chuckle, but it was a dark, cynical one. “What was he thinking? Power always corrupts, Marius. There is no way to escape that. And in the absence of planned perfection, one might as well let freedom build its own.”

“And Horus-”

“Horus is not corrupted, but he understood my suggestion as a power grab. He wants the Imperium Secundus to be established before he decides what it is.”

“A dangerous name,” the Chapter Master noted. “Some might think of an Imperium Tertius.”

“If we continue on this path,” Roboute Guilliman said, “an Imperium Tertius might yet become necessary.”

This time, the silence continued throughout the shuttle ride and into the Macragge’s Honour, up to the Primarch’s blinding throne room. It was a sign of pride, which Gage rarely forgave; but this was Guilliman. When Gage had first arrived at Ultramar, he became as good as an equerry to the Primarch, devoted beyond imagination; this was his gene-father! That had passed only when Guilliman had rebuked him for overly focusing himself on the Primarch’s person. “You fight for humanity and for Ultramar,” he’d said, “not for me.”

And he’d been right. And that had been why, when- decades later- Lorgar had been set back for worshipping the Emperor as a god, Gage made no comment except to utterly back his Primarch and Emperor.

And that was in large part why, now, he did not even consider turning his back on the former and following the latter.

“Marius,” Guilliman said as he sat down on the throne. “Do you have anything else to say before I depart?”

“I would like to once again request the First through Seventh Companies to remain with me.” Gage made no comment on the unprecedented breaking-up of a Chapter; Guilliman defied precedent. Nevertheless, that was the reason for his apprehension- he didn’t want his command divided.

“And I will have to once again deny that request. I need them- Ventanus, Cestus, Damocles…. Evexian of the Eighth, Lorchas of the Ninth, and the others will stay with you.”

“Then I would at least ask the entire First Chapter, including myself, accompany them. You can leave the Fifth and Twelfth behind instead- they haven’t rendez-voused with us yet.”

“Marius- do you really want to fly with me as I disassemble the Imperium?”

That stung. And it stung even more because Gage knew that his Primarch was right, that he could not wage offensive civil war. He was devoted to Ultramar above all; but to mankind, and thus the Imperium, equally. It already discomfited him that the Ultramarines were helping to pull it apart- how could he bear to kill other Astartes?

“Request rescinded,” Gage said. “Permission to leave?”

“Wait,” Guilliman said. “This is a long war we will wage; Ultramar will be threatened. You must defend it, reorganize it, command it.” He stood up from his throne. “I will take the Perfect Honour. The Macragge’s Honour, until my return- if that return comes, for these campaigns will be harder than any that have come before- is yours. Until I come back, you are officially the Regent of Ultramar.”

Regent of Ultramar.

It was a massive honor, one Gage had never even contemplated receiving. He was, in effect, the temporary dictator of the Five Hundred Worlds. This was not where he had been born; he had originally hailed from Terra. Yet this, from the gardens of Prandium to the hives of Carenn, from the caverns of Calth to the mountains of Macragge, was his true home, ever since he had taken the first step upon Guillimani soil.

“An honor,” the Primarch said, “but also a responsibility.”

True, but also a vast understatement.

The next minutes and hours passed in a haze- congratulations and departures, rushes and speeches. It was only the last of those, given by vox-network from the Perfect Honour as it prepared to leave the system, that Marius Gage truly listened to.

“Defenders of Ultramar!” Guilliman exclaimed, determination and respect mixing in his infinitely powerful voice. “You remain now in the core of what should become the greatest empire the galaxy should ever seen. We depart to wage war against our near-equals, against our brothers. You have the more honorable duty; you are the stewards of Ultramar itself.

I do not need to tell you not to let it fall. Yet perhaps I should remind you that that is not enough. Improve Ultramar. Expand Ultramar. Make it so, on our return, we will be blinded by the brilliance of what you have created.

You are more than soldiers, my children. You are guardians. For the Warmaster. Courage and honor!”

And the Ultramarines fleet jumped into the Warp.

Marius Gage watched it depart, ships vanishing into nothing via everything. Eyes resisted gazing too long at the Warp- there were things there, creatures that were supposedly beyond logic. That, of course, was false, but it was true that Warp-spawn did not obey the laws of physics. Human emotions affected them, and some scholars said human emotions created them.

The Emperor had supposedly allied himself with these “daemons”, though how that was possible Gage didn’t know- the beasts certainly didn’t look sentient when they lurked outside a ship’s Gellar field.

As the last ships disappeared, Gage sat down into Guilliman’s throne. It was oversized, of course- Ultramar was never meant to be ruled by a mere mortal, or even a Space Marine. Captains Evexian and Sattolo of the 14th were in the room, but otherwise the chamber was empty. Guilliman’s extensive decorations remained; Gage considered taking them down for a moment, then dismissed the idea as being an insult to the Primarch.

“So what now?” Sattolo asked.

“A brief database search of the regions surrounding Ultramar,” Gage noted, remembering Guilliman’s words on improvement and expansion, “indicates a number of prominent human and abhuman civilizations. The Outer Sphere and New Draconic Federation are probably the ones that will most readily join us.”

“What about the Inner Sphere?” Evexian suggested.

“The Inner Sphere has a close relationship with the Vespid Empire to their galactic southeast. For obvious reasons, that relationship cannot continue once the Inner Sphere joins Ultramar. Emissaries will, however, be sent to several other nations, such as the Conitian Empire to our east-northeast.”

Evexian nodded, satisfied. “So who will go where?”

“Sattolo will defend, together with Bosteton of the 16th, the southern extremes of the Five Hundred Worlds; thus I will be joining him as I go to negotiate with the Outer Sphere. Evexian, you will stay with the Tenth in order to fortify Macragge. Lorchas and half of the Ninth Company will negotiate with the New Draconics, while the other half will follow me to the Outer Sphere. The Tetrachs will be sent to negotiate as well, along with their private forces; specific dispositions will be determined later. After diplomacy concludes, I will return to Macragge; for now, Guiliman has more or less optimized Ultramar’s output. We will respond to changing factors as they occur. “

“And if they occur while you are away?” Evexian inquired.

“Reach me via astropath,” the Chapter Master said, before waving away the Captains. They gave deep bows, almost reminiscent of the ones tradition demanded they give the Primarch; Gage, for his part, considered them misplaced. He was the Regent, true, but that was for civilian rule; among the Legion, he was the First Chapter Master, and any honors should have been based on that.

Still, he wasn’t particularly offended. And before departing to the Outer Sphere, Gage decided he needed to visit Macragge and oversee construction projects. Perhaps he could even help personally- yes, that was a good idea. The Regent of Ultramar now ruled a realm at war, true, but Ultramar was more than that. It was going to be perfection.

And perfection did not indicate riches, Gage noted as he looked through the illuminators at the blue, green and gray surface of the planet below. Perfection indicated happiness, and happiness was culture, too; and relaxation; and progress; and safety. And in the end, happiness was freedom. Perhaps, in the end, the perfect empire was one that didn’t appear to exist. Perhaps a benevolent anarchy-

But without a central authority of some sort, well-being could not be optimized. And moreover, there was the eternal problem of crime. Realizing he had turned his gaze up from Macragge to the stars, Marius Gage of the Ultramarine Legion looked down to soil once more, ceased philosophizing, and ordered his shuttle to be prepared.


	5. Chapter 5

“The danger now,” Lord Commander Vespasian had recently said to Solomon Demeter, “is no longer our aim, but the lack of it.”

Demeter considered Vespasian a voice of reason in general, and this comment he saw as particularly insightful. The Emperor’s Children were too close to losing their decency. Ever since Fulgrim had executed Lord Commander Verona, the morality of the Legion had declined. Leaders of failed operations- including two Captains- were regularly executed, sometimes even without Fulgrim’s orders. Enemy civilians were massacred. Remembrancer Serena d’Angelus’ last work had used blood as a medium; she insisted it came from rats, but based on its tint Demeter suspected a more sinister origin.

So now he stood outside Vespasian’s office to request a formal inquiry. Fulgrim was unavailable as always, spending his time either working with Bile or discussing religion with Lorgar Aurelian via astropath. And of the Lord Commanders, Fabius seemed not to care about the Legion’s decay- being consumed in his work- and Eidolon actively contributed to it.

“Come in,” Vespasian said, and the Second Captain of the Emperor’s Children did.

“Captain Demeter.”

“Lord Commander Vespasian,” Demeter began, and then stopped because he recognized he had not been welcomed by Vespasian. “Lord Commander Eidolon?”

“We were just,” Vespasian said with an undercurrent of anger, “discussing the matter of Serena d’Angelus.”

“And I repeat,” Eidolon said, “she was within her rights. It was for art, Vespasian!”

“I have seen her so-called “art”,” Vespasian grimly replied, “and it failed to inspire.”

“Most of those who fought on Laeran find it inspiring.”

“Most of those who fought in the temple, you mean.” Vespasian turned to Demeter, quickly copied by the other Lord Commander. “What are you here about, Solomon?”

“The same, actually. I was about to request an inquiry.”

“I’ve already carried out one,” Vespasian said. “Serena d’Angelus murdered crew members Aseka Terpesi and Taur Taodor and used their blood for her paintings.”

“Murder?”

Demeter was aghast. Executions- even ones ordered by Eidolon instead of Fulgrim- were bad enough, but murder on an Astarte vessel was simply- simply unthinkable, really. Even when Demeter had suspected d’Angelus was lying about the blood’s origin, he didn’t really consider-

“Murder,” Vespasian confirmed, “and Lord Commander Eidolon considers it acceptable. As well as executing Saul Kisteus, who was a Sergeant under MY indirect command!”

“Those structures no longer matter, what with Kisteus failing in MY operation,” Eidolon noted, “and who are you to complain about death? How many humans have you killed in war? How many-” Demeter pressed his blade to the Lord Commander’s neck, but the speaker seemed not to notice- “sentient xenos? Death is natural, and there is nothing profane about it.”

“Would you like to experience it, then?” Demeter inquired with grinding teeth.

“Mutiny, on the other hand,” Eidolon proclaimed, finally realizing the danger he was in, “is unforgivable. So please let me go.”

“You are already gone,” the Second Captain said, a cold hatred for this slime filling him.

Eidolon looked to Vespasian, but the other Lord Commander was unmoving. And then, just as the chainsword’s teeth were about to spring to life, the Phoenician entered.

It was clear Fulgrim had not been expecting this; as soon as he saw the scene, a luminous and despairing rage filled his features. He was dressed in only a white robe, but he was as majestic and mighty as ever; light, or steam, seemed to go up from his lilac eyes.

“Release him,” Fulgrim said with the temperature of vacuum.

Demeter could not disobey. Yes, the Legion was declining. Yes, they were flying to do the unthinkable- to fight another Astarte Legion. Yes, Solomon Demeter suspected Lord Commander Fabius’ implants had a hidden, dark purpose. Yes, the last recruitment visit to Chemos had, even after gene-seed compatibility testing, met with a 99% casualty rate. In sum, yes, Demeter doubted his Primarch.

But now, at this moment, against this glorious perfection, there was no way Demeter could deny him. Murder on an Astartes vessel had been unthinkable so recently- had he really been on the verge of committing fratricide?

“Now,” Fulgrim said, simultaneously seeming murderous and melancholy, “what happened?”

“My lord father,” Vespasian answered, “Eidolon endorsed Serena d’Angelos’ murder of Terpesi and Taodor. Moreover, he endorsed murder in general. Demeter, understandably, considered that a license to kill the Lord Commander.” It was a daring response, and Vespasian took a moment to gather his breath before continuing. “My lord, please, stop this madness. The Legion I have fought for for so long, your Legion, is degenerating into- into nothingness. Into the void of death.”

“I know,” Fulgrim said. “This is precisely what I wanted to avoid.” He glanced at both Eidolon and Demeter as if they were squabbling children, and Demeter knew that was precisely what they had been- yet their struggle had almost ended in death. “Eidolon,” the Phoenician said, “I will clarify two things. First of all, remembrancers must be punished for murder. The pursuit for artistic perfection should not involve criminal acts. Secondly, and more importantly, you do not lead this Legion. When you killed Kisteus, you killed your brother. That was too far. Both of you will be publicly censured for conduct extremely unbecoming of the Legion.”

“Father,” Eidolon let out, “the Second Captain threatened a senior officer!”

“And you have threatened Fabius- don’t think I’m unaware. Marius Vairosean might not like it, but command chains change naturally, in the process of perfection. In another month, you may well be the junior officer.”

Eidolon nodded. Demeter could not even move, much less speak, in uttermost awe and shame.

Then the glare of the Phoenician left, his anger spent and the melancholic humour dominating his classical features, and the Second Captain could think again. Censure was not too difficult a punishment for what he had done, what he had almost done; he could easily have been executed, like Verona. Perhaps Fulgrim thought there was already too much death among his children.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Why?” the Primarch asked, seemingly ignoring him. “Why must you make this so difficult?”

He seemed distracted, nebulous somehow, and Demeter wondered again at how much was changing. Vairosean did not see it, locked within his training cages all day as he was, but some torrent had been unleashed after Laeran, a torrent which was now filling up the pool of tolerance and spilling out into madness.

“Demeter,” the Phoenician instructed, “bring Serena d’Angelus to me. Her, I will have to kill, no matter how beautiful her paintings. We will meet in the front of the vessel, at the Navigator’s hall.”

Demeter didn’t wait for further instructions. He respectfully went to do his duty, remembering Verona’s execution as he did so. This was different; Demeter did not argue that d’Angelus had to be punished. But as he crossed the Triumphal Way and gazed at Eidolon’s beloved mutilated skulls, the Second Captain found himself wondering if there was no other way.

There is none. If she was to be imprisoned, Fulgrim would be saying he had erred in executing Verona, and he did not.

Yet for all that the Phoenician was now trying to stop his Legion from going too far down that path, Demeter felt his trust in his lord had been broken forever.

Perhaps it was his way of war. The precise opposite of Marius Vairosean, Demeter fought without excessive amounts of foreplanning, individualistically, emotionally. Vairosean said that his methods were perfection, but Demeter felt perfection included leaving time for other matters, such as art.

Like Vairosean, Demeter had not been at the Laeran temple that had changed the Legion’s aesthetics; his gunship had crashed on the way, and he’d barely survived. He had taken up painting in the aftermath, drawing images that parodied traditional war art; they had smoothly turned into images parodying post-Laeran art, creating which was becoming more and more difficult as post-Laeran art became more and more ridiculous.

Entering d’Angelus’ studio, Demeter was immediately struck by the smell. Blood, sweat, salt, various perfumes, body waste, industrial waste and much, much more assaulted his olfactory organs. Demeter was a Space Marine, and his body could take punishment on a demidivine scale; but this was too much. Immediately, the Second Captain of the Emperor’s Children retched into a corner.

Serena d’Angelus didn’t even notice him. She was crying and painting with the tears, which dried into nothingness as soon as they came into contact with the paper.

The odor crushing Demeter’s melancholy, and the Second Captain decided that anyone who created it- he vomited again- deserved to die. “Humph,” he said.

d’Angelus turned around. “This is my newest work,” she said, “The Meaninglessness of Life. It’s- oh. You’re here to kill me?”

“I’m here to take you to the Phoenician,” Demeter truthfully said, and dragged the remembrancer out. His nose was elated.

“May I- may I see Ostian Delafour before the end?” d’Angelus asked, and Demeter suddenly realized just how much radiation she was emitting. Fortunately, he shouldn’t have received any serious damage yet, but he hurriedly put his helmet on and turned rad-shields to maximum nevertheless.

And this, he remembered, was supposedly one of the remembrancers least affected by Laeran.

“I will summon him. Gaius Caphen,” he voxed, “call remembrancer Ostian Delafour to the navigator’s hall.”

They walked through the winding corridors of the Pride of the Emperor, and as his sensors reported various extremes of chemicals in the air, Solomon Demeter swore to never take his helmet off in the remembrancers’ section again. In one spot, an odd reddish growth hung from the ceiling; after banging his head on it, Demeter voxed a sergeant to clean it up, reminding him to put on his helm before doing so.

The navigator’s hall was at the front of the ship. It was more or less the community center for the ship’s human inhabitants, including the remembrancers. The hall itself was a private space no one but Navigator Cranutus himself intruded on; but outside, a lounge of sorts extended for several hundred meters.

The region was undecorated, the only part within the Pride of the Emperor to be such. Therefore, it served as a neutral region of sorts, one where both those who had seen the Laeran temple and those who had not could meet without tearing each other’s throats out about- well, previously Demeter assumed it was simply the art style, but now he suspected the smell had something to do with it too.

Not all post-Laeran works were particularly malodorous, but Primarch, that studio!

Fulgrim himself was already there as Demeter and d’Angelus entered between the pipe-covered walls, as well as Eidolon and Lucius of the 13th- the latter was perhaps the single Space Marine most devoted to the Legion’s decay. There were rumors he was involved with a female remembrancer- utterly impossible, of course, given Astarte physiology, but demonstrative of how people felt about the decadent, proud Captain.

Ostian Delafour, a sculptor, entered seconds after Demeter. “Why am I here?” he sputtered. “I- oh.” He deeply bowed to Fulgrim.

“Why is he here?” the Primarch asked.

“The remembrancer requested it,” Demeter explained.

“Very well,” Fulgrim stated. He took out his blade, taken from the Laeran temple. “When I was originally gifted this blade,” he noted, “there was a Warp entity in it. The Emperor cleansed it, but the markings, the promises of doom, are still there. Today they promise doom for you, Serena d’Angelus. For murder of two crew members on my ship, I condemn you to death.”

Cranutus- Demeter wasn’t sure when the Navigator had appeared in the lounge- smiled. He was as close to a leader as the non-remembrancer crew had, given that the captain’s chair officially and indisputably belonged to Fulgrim. Indeed, that was probably for this reason that the execution was taking place in the lounge and not the Heliopolis. It was clear the Navigator desired vengeance for Terpesi and Taodor, and Demeter remembered that when he had pressed his blade against Eidolon’s throat- a horrible, senseless mistake- he had been smiling as well.

“Lucius,” the Phoenician said with a tragic air, “I will not sully my hands with the blood of this pathetic woman. Execute her.”

Fulgrim handed the 13th Captain the blade. Lucius moved d’Angelus closer to himself, into the center of some sort of symbol. The woman looked to Delafour, but the uncondemned remembrancer only glanced at Lucius and nodded.

He was not afraid, Demeter recognized with some surprise. Perhaps Delafour, having been with the fleet for a long time, was simply used to having Emperor’s Children around him. He certainly hadn’t been afraid during Demeter’s visits to his studio, to discuss the philosophy of art. The remembrancers were both averting their eyes from Fulgrim, however; it was impossible to get used to a Primarch.

Lucius’ blade swung down slowly- not because of the illusionary nature of time at deciding moments, but simply because the 13th Captain was being dramatic. At the last instant, the Laeran blade swung faster. It collided with d’Angelus’ neck, and Demeter watched the remembrancer’s blonde head roll to the floor.

And then there were daemons.  



	6. Chapter 6

Juilus Kaesoron had been reading Ignace Karkasky’s latest poems when they appeared.

It was a tangible itch at first, one the First Captain of the Emperor’s Children, lord of the self-proclaimed “Lions of Chemos” First Company, didn’t fully understand, especially as he felt it so often around the ship. Then a disembodied pink claw swung out at air from the room’s center. Kaesoron dodged, then grabbed his powersword and disintegrated it.

Only when a red, bear-like beast began to appear in the chamber did Kaesoron truly recognize the threat.

“Gellar field breach!” he screamed over the vox.

Kaesoron always had his helmet on now. Lord Commander Fabius had said that his implants to the First Captain’s trachea made a helmet’s filtration systems obsolete; thus, Kaesoron had upgraded his helmet. What he had was probably sliding into paranoia, a compulsion to isolate himself from the outside world; after Laeran, however, he would prefer that to ever having to face an airborne poison again.

Kaesoron swung at the bloody bear, cutting off half of its head. Even now, however, he was hearing whispers in the air, whispers of a malignant power still waiting to claim him.

“You think you can escape us so easily, Space Marine?”

It was a soft voice, one that tried to pull Kaesoron into its embrace, to once more-

“No!”

The First Captain of the Emperor’s Children ran from his room without looking back.

It had begun on Laeran. After fighting in the xenos’ temple complex, Kaesoron had discovered his favorite poems and other works of art no longer induced any joy or awe in him. He had gone to a Phoenician with the question of why; Fulgrim, for his part, had contacted the Emperor.

The days without a response had been agony. Kaesoron could remember it, days of utter ennui, days without Karkasky or Xantelle or Pserio, days when he doubted he would ever feel pleasure again. But the reply had come, and Fulgrim had gathered his Lord Commanders, with then-Apothecary Fabius and the first three Captains, to explain the situation.

The thing on Laeran, he’d explained, had been a Warp toxin. It was cleansable, and so Apothecary Fabius cleansed it from Kaesoron; but it was not malevolent, merely a token of the god Slaanesh. It was simultaneously with that response that the Third Legion had been summoned to Terra, and only weeks later that the Great Crusade had changed forever.

Kaesoron believed in the Emperor- he truly did, though with nothing approaching the faith of a Word Bearer. But he could not bring himself to trust this other deity. Thus, when a week ago Fulgrim began to crack down on some of Laeran’s more extreme effects and the Legion’s resultant disorganization, Kaesoron had backed him even more than Vairosean.

Demeter was… well, Kaesoron wasn’t sure if there was anything Fulgrim could do to get Demeter back.

Voices without bodies whispered to the First Captain, but Kaesoron automatically shut them out. They were the speech of daemons, the speech of Slaanesh. They were lies.

“Get to the engineering deck,” he voxed as he ran to the Company armoury. “Gellar breach plan 2-Alpha.”

Few ships survived a Gellar field breach; fortunately, Kaesoron knew a quick path to the generators. He’d planned it out specifically for this sort of emergency. Slaanesh dwelled in the Warp, and a Gellar field breach was precisely the moment to fear the god most.

Within the armoury, Kaesoron clipped his powersword and took up a plasma cannon, which limited operational reports suggested was effective against Warp-spawn.

As he sprinted away from the armoury, the cannon’s heavy weight trying to pull him down, Warp-spawn- “daemons”- swarmed in front and behind. The First Captain shot again and again. He was alone- the rest of his Company was, it seemed, delayed somehow.

Then he saw the door to Sergeant Perio Wascero’s room. He knocked it open, almost crushing it with gauntleted hands. Inside, the Sergeant stood, approaching a singing female daemon. She turned to face Kaesoron, her beautiful face-

Kaesoron shook his head, dispelling the illusion, and pulled the trigger on his plasma cannon.

Her face became a flaming mess, and her image faded.

“Wascero!” Keasoron called.

The Sergeant blinked the glamours away and turned to his Captain. “Brother-Captain, I’m-”

“We need to get to the generators. Go!”

They ran together now. As they did, three more Marines joined them from a side passageway- Sergeant (formerly Epistolary) Saul Jasnian, Battle-Brother Venitro Eseter of Squad Jasnian, and Battle-Brother Quartus Nitran of Squad Renaekarn. They battered their way towards the generators with swords and bolters; Kaesoron’s cannon was ripped apart by a large, rotting daemon which the Astartes squeezed by without killing by the passageway’s side. It crushed Jasnian as the Emperor’s Children made their escape.

“Brother-Sergeant!” Eseter turned a begging eye towards his Captain. Kaesoron felt for the young Marine’s loss, but there was no reasonable way to save Jasnian.

“Eseter, you are promoted to Sergeant in his replacement. Just keep running. Children of the Emperor!”

“Death to his foes!” the Astartes cried in response, though their breath was already all but spent on the endless combat.

Their eight hearts pumping in unison, the Emperor’s Children crushed their way to the Gellar field generators through overwhelming opposition in seven point five minutes, though it felt like a lifetime to all involved. They fought as one, even though they had never fought together before, because they were fighting by the precepts of the Emperor’s Children.

They fought as one, because each of them fought with equal desperation.

The generators were largely undamaged when Kaesoron arrived, though a lilac-hued blob of Warp-stuff was beginning to rip one apart as the Space Marines entered. A bolter round from the newly promoted Eseter took it down, and Kaesoron rushed to fix it. It was quick, given the damage was mostly superficial; the other generators were completely uninjured, merely turned off for some incomprehensible reason.

The other Astartes surrounded the generators with a storm of fire and steel. Bolter shells exploded and chainswords flashed as, bit by bit, invading daemons were torn apart. But that could only buy time; from the corner of his eye, Kaesoron saw Nitran get torn apart by a putrescent Warp-creature similar to the previous one- perhaps it was, in fact, the same daemon.

Daemon. It was odd how quickly Kaesoron had managed to settle into using the name; but this was no time for introspection.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” a creature said, even as the repairs were completed.

Julius Kaesoron turned on the Gellar field.

The effect was immediate. Slime and body fluids began to disappear. The daemons disintegrated, one by one. A large, winged one tried to rush Kaesoron as the field’s effect took place, but it was too slow.

Within twenty seconds, the Pride of the Emperor was clear of daemons. It was then that Tenth Captain Saul Tarvitz shambled in, flanked by one of his Sergeants- Marius Xaerus, according to the armor.

“Thank you, Julius,” he said. “The Warp-spawn almost killed me.” Indeed, his armor was crumpled, apparently from impact with a wall.

“You’re welcome. Do you know what happened?”

“I do,” the Phoenician said.

Fulgrim came in flanked by Captains Lucius and Demeter. He had no armor on, only a robe; this did not lessen his intimidating visage. The Captains looked exhausted, but Fulgrim was as tranquil as he ever was.

“My Primarch.” Kaesoron knelt, simultaneously with Tarvitz and the Sergeants.

“Rise,” Fulgrim said. “Now. Captain Lucius, of the Thirteenth, why did you execute Serena d’Angelus in such a way as to let these Warp creatures in?”

“I… I was informed of a ritual. I believe I misunderstood its purpose.”

“And,” Fulgrim said, his tranquility fading, “how many of my children died because of your misunderstanding?”

“I-” Lucius faltered under the unrelenting gaze of the Primarch. Kaesoron had an uncomfortable moment of déjà vu; Fulgrim’s incandescent anger was the equal of that he had felt at Lord Commander Verona.

“The daemons weren’t aggressive,” Lucius finally mumbled.

“Aye,” Fulgrim said, “they didn’t attack us before we attacked them. I have few enough qualified senior officers as is, so I will not execute you- Battle-Brother Lucius.“

Kaesoron watched the spectacle with increasing amazement. Demeter’s feelings appeared to be similar. Tarvitz glanced at Lucius with regret- Kaesoron knew of the Captains’ friendship.

“Lord Father,” Tarvitz asked, “is there any way- I know Lucius meant the best for the Legion on its new path-”

“The Legion,” Fulgrim said with a deep power, “is on the same path it has always been on- the path to perfection. Lucius unforgivably deviated from this path, and he must be punished. He will be censured along with Captain Demeter and Lord Commander Eidolon, and then stripped of his captaincy and assigned to a squad. I do not tolerate failure!”

Lucius nodded and went to one knee.

“Dismissed,” Fulgrim said. “The new Captain of the Thirteenth will be announced tomorrow, once Lord Commander Vespasian has reviewed the options. All but Captain Kaesoron, dismissed. Julius, come with me.”

They walked through the engineering deck with Fulgrim. “You did well in the Gellar fields’ restoration,” the Primarch noted.

Kaesoron beamed with pride. Given how little preparation he could reasonably have had, he did consider it a rather successful mission.

“However,” Fulgrim continued, “Lucius was right- the Warp beings were not aggressive. How many of your party died before they could reach the generators?”

“Two.”

“Two of my children, and surely there were others attempting to restore the Gellar fields. If you had reasoned with them, as you should have, the Warp beings would not have killed you.”

“They would simply have let us restore the Gellar fields?” Kaesoron asked with some skepticism.

“No. But you should not have risked your life and the lives of others to restore the fields a minute before I arrived there.”

Inside, Kaesoron felt gravely offended, but he did his best not to let it show- after all, he reminded himself, this was Fulgrim. “That minute saved Tarvitz.”

“That was circumstantial. Your companions’ deaths, however, were not. Again, I am not punishing you; but the forces of the Warp are our enemy no longer. I will accept they make for unreliable allies. But this is the path the Emperor himself set us on.”

“The Emperor and Lorgar.”

“Yes- Lorgar played a role as well. But this is the Emperor’s work we are doing. You do not doubt our assault on Ultramar, after all, and indeed no one in the Legion does. Why do you doubt this decision?“

“I believe in the Emperor,” Kaesoron said. “I believe in the golden road he has put humanity on. I believe in the Imperium of Man, too, and the new Imperial truth. But I believe in perfection, in sanctity, in art, as well; and I cannot look at post-Laeran works without weeping of disgust. Where are we going, father?”

“Where the Emperor wills,” Fulgrim said. “Is that not enough?”

And thinking of the daemonic assault, of Nitran’s last cry, but also of Terra and the many-faced glory that was humanity’s leader, Kaesoron knew- as he often knew things after a battle- that he only had one answer.

“Yes,” Kaesoron said, looking down in the vague direction of his Primarch’s feet. “Yes, it is.”


	7. Chapter 7

The Outer Sphere was a loose organization of planets and space stations to the south of Ultramar. Formerly, it had been part of a petty empire known as the Great Sphere; a civil war over the Sphere’s governance had erupted about a century before the Great Crusade had found Ultramar, however, and the conflict tore the nation apart. At first the faction that would become the Outer Sphere was winning; in desperation, the future Inner Sphere appealed for help from the nearby Vespid xenos. The Vespid did, in fact, give their aid, and the Outer Sphere came out of the war in much weaker condition than the Inner; but in the years since the Inner Sphere had gradually turned into a Vespid puppet state.

Therefore, Gage did not seek to negotiate with them, but rather with the recently resurgent Outer Sphere. He only had five hundred Astartes at his side- half a Company- but Gage knew that was a sufficient force to conquer the nation if necessary. That eventuality, regrettably, appeared more and more likely with each hour.

He was currently seated, with his bodyguards, in the antechamber of the Spherical Overseer’s throne room. Of course, antechamber and throne room were strong words- the Overseer seemed to have an even greater distaste for excess than Gage himself. Gray and white were the only colors visible in the walls, and the Regent of Ultramar suspected the gray was some sort of fungus. He had been staring at that fungus for half an hour, considering what Ultramar had to offer the Outer Sphere in the context of the current galactic political situation.

“The current galactic political situation.” Only a cycle ago, Marius Gage had learned the reason for the Twelfth Chapter’s disappearance was that the Astartes had departed for Terra, rescinding their oaths to Guilliman and repledging themselves to the Emperor, claiming that Prospero was a lie. The current galactic political situation, whether Gage liked it or not, was that the Ultramarines were taking apart the Imperium of Man, rebelling against the Emperor himself even as the Emperor himself burned worlds. The current galactic political situation was treachery and destruction.

And war. Impossible war. Gage was devoted to Ultramar and to the Imperium, and he had never imagined those loyalties conflicting. Rationally, he had to back Guilliman, because building up the Imperium was now the same as constructing ruin. But rationality mattered less and less, and Gage was now only certain of his loyalties because, as wrong as it would have seemed once, he trusted Guilliman’s judgment far more than he trusted the Emperor’s.

The doors to the throne room began to swing open, but when Gage shook his head he recognized that it was only the wind. The Spherical Overseer was still not permitting them in.

“Taplon, Vestates, make a theoretical for these negotiations turning hostile. Then prepare for the practical.”

“Do you-”

“I will not strike first.”

Taplon nodded and repositioned his chainsword. Even Taplon, Gage recognized, felt doubt. It was the curse of those who had power, he had once said, but in these days it was everyone’s curse. He wished yet again that Nicodemus was here- the Tetrarch tended to understand these sorts of situations better. But Nicodemus was negotiating with the Conitian Empire, far to the galactic northeast, and having him here was just another dream.

Then the doors swung open again, and this time, it was not the wind. The Spherical Overseer rushed out, clothed in a suit as unremarkable as the room that was revealed. It was a large, elliptical chamber with a round table toward the far end. What Gage assumed was the Overseer’s chair was only marked as such by being slightly bigger than the others. Papers lay scattered on the table, and a large holo-screen was attached to the west wall.

“Thank fortune for you coming!” the Overseer blurted out. “Marius Gage of Ultramar, if I’m not mistaken?”

“You are not,” Gage said, trying to hide his caution at the words’ intonation. “I am here to discuss terms-”

“We’ll accept any terms, as long as you’ll help us! Please, come in, I’m sorry we’ve kept you waiting so long-”

It was clear that the Outer Sphere’s situation had drastically changed, as the tone that the Overseer had struck when Gage had first arrived was a much more careful one. It was obvious the Outer Sphere had been invaded, probably by overwhelming forces- but who was so dangerous as to make a nation as powerful as the Outer Sphere submit itself unconditionally? Perhaps the Vespid Empire and Inner Sphere had finally united to take out their rival once and for all. Perhaps it was something worse.

In either case, Gage dearly hoped it would be a foe he knew of. The Ultramarines could defeat almost anyone if they had a theoretical- though, of course, he only had half a Company.

No matter. Sattolo and Bosteton are close by; I can call on them for a prolonged campaign.

As he calmed himself, a message popped up from the fleet, signaling an Iron Hands fleet had transferred into the system. The Chapter Master mentally filed the information away, recognizing he probably needed to process other things first.

Coming into the room, Gage selected a chair that looked relatively sturdy and sat down. His bodyguards took similar spots around the table. Some of the chairs wobbled, but only Varro Ximeoden’s collapsed. Ximeoden responded by dusting himself off, apologizing, and taking a standing position next to his Chapter Master.

“Regent Gage,” the Overseer- Halriun Veticus was his birth name- pronounced, seemingly calmed down somewhat. “Today the peaceful Outer Sphere was attacked by a force of about five hundred Iron Hands under, according to them, the command of one Iron Father Sorpot. They are now appearing from the Warp around this system, commanding us to surrender or die. They have moreover said that surrender will involve the deaths of this ruling council.” Now Veticus’ expression turned pleading once more, either as a misplaced political maneuver or out of the sudden recognition of how much danger he was in. “Save us and the Outer Sphere will peacefully join Ultramar. I knew there was a civil war in your behemoth, but I never expected it to come here….”

“No one does,” Vestates offered.

“I did warn you that you could not avoid the war,” Gage stated. “But your terms are accepted.”

And only as he said that did Gage realize the enormity of what he was agreeing to do. The Iron Hands were one of the Legions closest to the Ultramarines, a martial exemplar, a steel ideal. The Tenth Legion task force was not even led by a Captain; Gage knew that the Ultramarines could win, with or without Sattolo and Bosteton’s help. But they would be fighting to prevent the expansion of the Imperium. They would be-

They would be fighting for Guilliman and for Ultramar, and the Imperium’s butchers would go down in flames. Cousin against cousin, perhaps, but Gage would protect Macragge from his brothers if he had to.

Thus convincing himself, Marius Gage, First Chapter Master of the Ultramarines and Regent of Ultramar, repositioned his powersword.

“I am ready,” he said, though he was not. “Rerun the theoretical for a space battle against the sons of Ferrus, brothers. Let’s get into orbit and win the battle. We march for Macragge, now.”

“And we shall know no fear!” the Astartes said, and rose as one.

“Don’t you need the tactical?” the Overseer asked as the Ultramarines began to leave.

“Not to condescend, but our sensors exceed yours. Does anyone object to my tactical leadership of the campaign?”

The Overseer shrugged. “As I said, just chase the Iron Hands away. The Sphere is at your disposal.”

One of the advisors seemed about to object, but Veticus waved him to silence.

“I will contact you once on my ship,” Gage said, and began to move there.

He considered various theoreticals on the way, downloading relevant data through his helmet. The Tenth Legion’s fleet was large, but the Ultramarines’ primarily-diplomatic one was slightly superior in firepower; clearly Sorpot had not been expecting any resistance beyond the Outer Sphere’s own forces. Those were also significant- larger than the Iron Hands’ by far. Obviously Sorpot had expected the Tenth’s advantage in hand-to-hand combat would be sufficient for victory. Gage gave orders to the fleet even before he reached the Macragge’s Honour, sending them into brief clashes with far lesser Tenth Legion ships. Sorpot responded with some fitting counter-attacks of his own, but by the time the Chapter Master reached his ship, the Iron Hands were mostly retreating.

As Marius Gage stepped onto the deck of the Macragge’s Honour, a message sent from the Tenth Legion’s Battle Barge to the Spherical Overseer replayed itself in his helmet. The twisted, half-metallic face of the Iron Father appeared on the Chapter Master’s retinal display.

“You were warned,” Sorpot of the Iron Hands, Marius Gage’s cousin, hissed to the Spherical Overseer.

Marius Gage ignored that as he walked and lifted to the bridge. It was the idle protest of a defeated foe. Most of the Iron Hand vessels were even now disappearing into the Warp.

Most. But not all. A drop-pod hammered into the Macragge’s Honour, and Marius Gage felt the ship rattle. He sprinted to the bridge, rushing in as the first enemy Astarte- an oxymoron if there ever was one- entered the ship’s brain.

It was an Iron Hand Sergeant like any other. Saph Kontewax, according to his armor. He was not a horrible mutant abomination or a Warp-spawn fused with the human form. His only distinction was that he fought without a helmet, showing off his metal-plated forehead; but even that could be explained, for instance by his booming voice.

“Death to the traitors!” he screamed with unnatural hatred, the sound gratingly amplified through a plasteel voice-box. “Death to the heretics!”

“For the Emperor!” the other Iron Hands, filing in behind, yelled in response.

Gage came face-to-face with one of them. Jerking his powersword out of its place on his belt, he somewhat clumsily batted aside the Tenth Legionnaire’s attack, then moved into a guarding position. The Iron Hand swung again, but Gage deflected the strike, forcing the son of Ferrus to turn slightly leftwards and giving the Ultramarine a momentary opening. He used it, sliding his blade in and slicing the Iron Hand’s head off.

As the Space Marine- Tarn Kissot, according to his armor- slowly fell backwards, his arm still moving back into a second slice at Gage despite its owner’s death, the Chapter Master only saved the trouble of blocking it because of the body’s drop, Marius Gage considered what he had just done. He had just killed his cousin. He had just ended a Space Marine. As far as the Imperium was concerned, he was a traitor.

And- even more worryingly- as far as the empire of Ultramar was concerned, he was a hero.

A shot to his left hand shook him out of his contemplation, the bolter round cracking his ceramite but fortunately not quite penetrating. The sounds of battle- screams, bolters firing, swords scraping on ceramite- came back, as did the smell of blood and burning metal. Swinging around, Marius Gage impaled another Iron Hand, one whose bolter arm had just been cut off by Ximeoden.

“Courage and honour!” he cried, but the words seemed to have little relevance now.

“For Ultramar!” Passtedar cried, even as an Iron Hand bolt exploded his head. The theoretical for fighting other Astartes seemed almost quaint now. He had led his ships to war against the Iron Hand fleet without trouble, but this, Marine against Marine at close quarters, when he could see his foe- his cousin- even as he killed someone he should never have been killing… this was different. For the first time in Marius Gage’s life, the theoreticals were not enough despite being perfect. Nothing could prepare one for this.

No, something could. Logically, there had to be ways to prepare, but Gage would have to remember they were spiritual as well as tactical and physical.

The tides of battle churned. Gage directed the skirmish for a couple of instants, then was forced to duck as the teeth of a chainsword bit into a bulkhead just above him. He decapitated the blade’s owner, then turned and came face to face with the Sergeant, with Saph Kontewax of the Iron Hands, with his cousin, with his attacker.

“I had hoped for Guilliman,” Kontewax said. “I’ll have to settle for you.”

And the dance of swords began. Kontewax snuck into Gage’s guard- this one was good- but the Chapter Master evaded the worst of the blow and hit his own. The Iron Hand retreated and the powerblades clashed, sparkling in the lamps’ light. They clashed once more, but Kontewax’ weapon was weaker, and so he attempted a low strike next; but Gage knocked it into the floor. For a second, he had a clean shot. For that second, though, he also had a question.

Why? Why did this have to be? The Imperium’s actions were becoming wildly inconsistent and purposeless. Gage had always respected the Iron Hands, so why were they fighting? Why had the Imperium betrayed Guilliman, and Ultramar, and in truth even itself?

And as he contemplated the madness and attempted to work out what the abstract practical was, the very concrete practical in front of him swung its weapon and-

And collapsed to the ground, dead. Taplon walked up with the bolter that ended Saph Kontewax’ life.

“Regent?” Gage’s brother asked.

The First Chapter Master shook himself off. The melee was over; all the preparation had paid off. The Ultramarines stood triumphant, although they had suffered severe losses.

“Regent?” Taplon whispered. “Why did you hesitate?”

“I would never go running back to the Emperor and betray Ultramar,” Gage said. It was the truth. He would never do that. “But I… I cannot go on like this, either.”

And that, too, was truth.

But he could not change the present.

“Give pursuit,” Marius Gage of the Ultramarines ordered.


	8. Chapter 8

The war for Slodi would begin soon. Solomon Demeter watched the drop-pods scatter down from the Pride of the Emperor with some regret. Marius Vairosean was a true friend; they would stand together until the end. But now Vairosean was fighting below, and there was all too high a chance that in his drive to redeem himself he would get himself killed.

No, that wasn’t right. Vairosean was never like that. He would wage the campaign according to all regulations, and in all likelihood come back in one piece. But if he did die, Demeter’s position would become desperate. His public censure was bad enough, and Fulgrim’s attempt to curb the Legion’s excesses was a double-edged sword: it slowed down the decay, true, but it turned aside the protests of any who tried to stop it.

Politically speaking, he was in trouble. Politics, however, was not Demeter’s business, any more than, say, business. Thus the Second Captain forced a smile onto his face; Vairosean would at last get his redemption, and perhaps the Third Captain would complain about Demeter’s lack of planning again. The Legion was being reborn, a phoenix of the Emperor.

“Would you like to see our own deployments?” Captain Daimon of the Eighth inquired, coming up behind Demeter.

“Am I with you?”

“Indeed,” Daimon said with a toothy grin. “along with Kaesoron and his Lions, and Ruen of the 21st as well. We’re going to clear out the Slodi moon’s research station, and after we’re done in the system the Legion will spread out. But we’ll stay with Fulgrim! Our four companies will carve the Legion’s glory into the Unbroken Stars under the command of the Phoenician himself!”

“Why are you so excited? We’ve fought with the Primarch before, Daimon. Often.”

“Yes, but not often for a full campaign!”

Demeter responded with a knowing smile. This was a great honor, and a fortunate one, given that Fulgrim would isolate Demeter from the Legion’s worst. Perhaps the weeks to come, the weeks before Ultramar, could be somewhat of a return to normalcy. Perhaps there was hope yet.

“Fulgrim is executing a remembrancer today,” Daimon announced. “Do you want to watch?”

“How long until deployment?”

“Onto the Slodi moon? A few hours. We have time.“

“Executions aren’t a source of entertainment for me. Who is it, though?”

“Sarnita Quoxitti, for making music that literally killed a crew member listening to it. It had to do with live bolters being used for the symphony. I think all the nudity had to do with it too.”

“Bolters- seriously?”

“It was an accident. Believe me: I was there. The symphony itself wasn’t even good.”

Demeter suppressed a sigh; Daimon had been there at Laeran. His taste in music was odd to say the least, and a concert with live bolters seemed like exactly the sort of thing Daimon would enjoy. Exactly what distinguished one wall of painful, deafening noise from another was not clear to Demeter, but to Daimon and his ilk the chaos made sense.

Well, at least it had been music, and as such it probably hadn’t smelled. Ever since bringing d’Angelos to her execution, Demeter had been having nightmares about that stench.

“But,” Daimon continued, “the exquisiteness of some of her previous work… it’ll be interesting to see her die. Tragic, but interesting. Why are you so repulsed, anyway?”

“I’m not repulsed,” Demeter said. “I just want to get my Company battle-ready in a few hours. Farewell.” He left without waiting for Daimon’s answer; it didn’t concern him anyway.

He heard it nevertheless. “Well, fine,” Daimon said with fake apathy before exiting, presumably towards the execution.

Demeter voxed his Sergeants to gather before entering the Company’s gathering hall himself. He was not yet prepared for battle, but that mattered little; even if he got together in five minutes, he would be more perfectly ready than Daimon or Ruen would with unlimited time. And he didn’t plan to wait until there were five minutes left. As for assault plans, he would leave most of those to Kaesoron; for his own part, he preferred having a rough sketch that he could modify depending on the circumstances.

The Company gathered quickly: they seemed eager to get into action. The fleet- carrying the entire Legion- had taken far too long to get to the Unbroken Stars. That had, in fact, probably been a major reason for the corruption and decadence. With nothing to do, Legionnaires had sunk as low as- according to the latest rumor- killing each other for sport.

Brother against brother, for no reason besides sick pleasure. And Demeter still remembered his own shame after coming so close with Eidolon. Yes, the Primarch had made mistakes, but regardless of politics cleaning up the Legion had been an utter necessity.

“Battle-Brothers of the Second Company!” Demeter proclaimed after confirming the order, via vox, with Lord Commander Vespasian. “Today the Primarch has seen fit to send us to war. We will fight on Slodi’s moon and crush the rebellion for Primarch and Emperor. I know some of you have doubts about the changes in the Imperium, but some of you have doubts about whether Chemos is round. Doubts can be forgotten, especially now. On Slodi’s moon we will fight together with the First, the Eighth, and the Twenty-First. I will distribute the rough battle-plans in an hour; we’ll be on the surface in three hours.”

The Second Company let out a cheer. Some Astartes, among them Sergeant Anapene, seemed fiery with enthusiasm; others, Gaius Caphen among them, apparently had difficulty forcing excitement out. Demeter did not, could not blame either side, but he was certainly in the first camp.

The assembly concluded quickly, and Demeter headed back to his chamber. He put on his armor, taking a second to polish the various segments before joining them on his body. Then, he actually began to contemplate the battle plans. Bringing up Kaesoron’s tactical map on his cogitator, Demeter stared blankly at his screen. His mind was working slowly, it seemed.

The stupor passed, and Demeter began calculating possibilities for attack plans. Going up the centre was a favored tactic of his, but here a surrounding strike would be the best to take care of his objective. The centre would need to be heavily defended- perhaps a minor attack up the centre would push the enemy’s focus away from the sides?

Yes, that would do it. Demeter would go up the centre, while Caphen and another lieutenant would surround the rebels and make their destruction inevitable. It’d be an interesting trial to see how the various fortifications and bunkers affected the general strategy, but all of that would be on the ground.

It took some time to write out the plans and send them to his Sergeants, but Demeter still had an hour before real preparations would start. The time was right, he decided, to visit Ostian Delafour. The sculptor was among the few remembrancers with the fleet who had remained on the ships during the Laeran incident, and thus his work was undamaged by the temple’s poisons.

Delafour was working on a titanic statue when Demeter peeked into the door; when remembrancer noticed Astarte, however, Delafour smiled and sat down on his work bench, breathing heavily.

“It’s good to see you again,” Delafour noted. “The stone’s rather… uncooperative. I might have to make the sculpture in a more abstract style.”

“What is it going to be, anyway?”

“What does it look like, now?”

“Spherical. Not quite regular, but it looks like a spherical space station.”

Delafour smiled. “Think bigger. This, my friend, is Chemos. Not exactly a scale model, I’m afraid- the surface details would have to be tiny- but rather an artistic representation. Its surface will be a metaphor for the progress of the Great Crusade, in the incarnation of your Legion. That, for instance-” the remembrancer pointed at a set of tentacles entangling humanoid figures- “is the battle of Laeran.”

“And that’s Fulgrim.” Demeter pointed at a large, somewhat man-shaped protuberance at the top of the ball.

“Indeed, though he’s quite unpolished at the moment. So is there a specific reason for your being here?”

“Besides visiting a “fellow unenlightened lifeform”?”

Delafour chuckled. “Still haven’t forgiven Abranxe, have you?”

“Actually, Heliton said it first. Abranxe was just copying his blood-brother. But yes, there’s a reason; I was wondering… I wanted a centerpiece for the Company hall, and there are all too few pre-Laeran sculptors left.”

“Ah.” Delafour smiled. “Of course- actually, do you want this sculpture of Chemos, if I ever finish it?”

“No,” Demeter answered. “I have Kraste’s statue of Fulgrim triumphant already, remember? I want something… less victorious. Tragic. I don’t want to forget the evil we’ve done along with the good.” With the way things have been going lately, there was actually a slight chance that he could.

“You won’t,” Delafour promised. “My next piece was actually- but no, not right now. Not now.” Demeter wasn’t sure, but he thought that for the first time ever, he saw tears in the remembrancer’s eyes.

Delafour started hacking away at the stone once more, and Demeter quickly retreated. Thinking of Delafour’s unknown personal tragedy and his own frustration, the Second Captain spent the remaining minutes before deployment painting an image of nighttime battle, the Emperor’s Children fighting the Luna Wolves under a sky of meteor fire. This was war, true war, suffering and treachery mixed into a maddening vortex that dragged down progress into regression and faith into nihilism.

Demeter found it useful to push himself into such an emotional state before battle; it made him more deadly.

Then the door opened, and First Captain Julius Kaesoron walked in.

“Demeter?” he asked. “Deployment is about to start.”

“Of course,” the Second Captain said, “of course.”

He took a step back and looked at his work. It was at best a sketch for now, and an apprentice’s sketch at that; but that was enough for now. The details would come if a basis was there. It was his approach to battle, though one disdained by the rest of the Legion, and it was his approach to art, no matter what it depicted.

What it depicted was- “Treachery,” Demeter said. It applied to everyone now.

Then they walked to the deck, where the Second Captain was reunited with his Company. They cheered his arrival, though in his melancholy, Demeter did not comprehend why. Here, among those deployed, Demeter was generally the sanguine, Kaesoron the melancholic, Daimon the choleric; now Demeter was undeniably the melancholic and Kaesoron phlegmatic. Well, times changed.

The galaxy changed, thrashing mankind around in its endless boilers.

The Astartes filed into their drop pods, Demeter choosing a place next to Sergeant Oritran Sabato. Then they dropped, the Pride of the Emperor fading from being the world to being a violet splotch, and then a violet dot, on the blackness of space.

“Ten.”

It was only then that Demeter recognized the true scope of this tragedy.

“Nine.”

They were not going into battle against a xenos foe.

“Eight.”

The Unbroken Stars were aligned with the Warmaster’s revolt.

“Seven.”

Their only error was not believing the Emperor was a god.

“Six.”

Their only crime was backing the Warmaster.

“Five.”

Their only sin was believing in his cousins.

“Four.”

In a very real way, he was walking out to battle to forces of Horus.

“Three.”

In a very real way, he was entering a war between brothers.

“Two.”

He would kill his fellow human, and not for the sacred ideal of unification, but only for the conflicting ambitions of beings- albeit supreme beings- light-years away.

“One.”

And if that did not sadden, what did?

“Impact!"


	9. Chapter 9

First Captain Julius Kaesoron surveyed the battlefield.

He had crafted this plan meticulously, though with only a day’s warning he knew it could have been better. Daimon, Demeter, and Ruen had apparently not known until a few hours beforehand; none of them seemed to care. Daimon was just glad to be unleashed, Demeter only ever built his plans in rough sketches, and Ruen- of late- rarely had a plan at all.

But no matter; they were all competent, and if they had been members of, say, the Luna Wolves or the Iron Hands- not to speak of the Space Wolves or World Eaters- such tendencies would be typical, and it would be Kaesoron who stood out. The Emperor’s light, it seemed, had been turning the Third Legion closer to such a scenario lately; but Kaesoron didn’t see any reason to change yet. After all, their ways had led them to greatness. They still were, in fact.

“Perfection cries in delight among unending palaces of broken foes.” Ignace Karkasky’s poems often seemed to oppose the Great Crusade as much as they supported it, but his first Perfection’s Cry was more than the ode to the Emperor’s Children others saw it as- it was an ode to warfare.

It was an ode to the Crusade. And now, when Horus had turned his back on the Emperor and Karkasky’s work had stopped coming in, Kaesoron found some comfort in the past- clearer, simpler days.

Days now gone.

“Brother-Captain?” Perio Wascero asked from beside Kaesoron. Since the daemonic incursion on the Pride, Wascero had become Kaesoron’s unofficial left hand, just as Ispequr Davars was his official right.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Kaesoron spared one last look for Demeter battling in the distance, trying to capture the rebels’ primary reactor. He fought like the Phoenician himself, immaculate skill and perfectly unbalanced humours blending into a god of death. Skitarii and Army soldiers flew away from him rather than toppling. When he had zoomed in, Kaesoron had seen tears on Demeter’s face, and they were not tears of joy; but where most warriors’ sadness slowed them down and turned their minds to compassion, Demeter’s was a weapon. Even as he regretted having to kill those people, Demeter did so all the more efficiently.

But Kaesoron had his own war to fight.

“Children of the Emperor!” he cried, heading down from the landfill rise.

“Death to his foes!” his Company cried, some charging down nearby hills and others running out of the research station’s scattered buildings. They converged on the manufactorum’s back; Kaesoron had reason to suspect that, since this was the best-defended area, the moon’s leaders would make their last stand within the building. Lascannons pounded into their ranks, and several of the Children fell, but the Space Marines’ speed allowed most to get through the killing ground unharmed. Those that were wounded were picked up by those that weren’t, brother carrying brother into the eye of the storm.

As expected, just as the Emperor’s Children were about to impact the featureless wall, the waste disposal automatically opened. It was right on schedule- two hours after the last opening, which Sergeant Ereluto had reported, and four hours after the one before that, which had been witnessed by Battle-Brother Quasius. The otherwise well-defended manufactorum had a back door in the form of Mechanicum standards. If the waste disposal had not opened, signaling the tech-priests had recognized their weakness, the First Company’s chainblades and powerswords would still have forced their way in, though the cannons would have had time to take several more casualties.

Kaesoron rushed in, the Lions of Chemos following. The doors would close in a moment, after all, when the adepts recognized the automated systems were a flaw. Yes, the manufactorum was well-defended, about the only well-defended place on the moon. Kaesoron admitted to himself that Fulgrim’s decision to send four Companies was overkill: though the Mechanicum and Imperial Army were bravely resisting, the battle was more of a massacre.

Well, Fulgrim’s desires were Kaesoron’s law. “Everyone in?” he vox-asked as the doors began to swing shut.

“Yes,” Wascero replied from near the wall. “Half a Company, seven hundred Astartes, at your disposal.”

“Well, to the command center, then. Children of the Emperor!”

“Death to his foes!” came the cry of seven hundred battle-hungry throats. Kaesoron’s control over his Company was unequalled among the Legion; he paid close attention to its running, even more than to his battle plans. That was why his corps of Sergeants, his personal pride, was considered the best in the Legion; Kaesoron picked them, and encouraged them, carefully. Thus, when Fulgrim had reminded him of his duty to the God-Emperor, Kaesoron had encouraged his Company to fight without regret or mercy. For all that it was unfortunate, these people were traitors.

“Squads Renaekarn and Hasanury, plus the Section 2 Apothecaries, stay here and guard the wounded. I want as few casualties as possible. Everyone else- with me. The rebels’ sanctum should be to our east.”

Kaesoron broke into a run once more, though this time it was more of a jog. The next minutes were filled with the tedious work of checking corners, making outposts, and moving ceaselessly. Soon enough, scouts began to report back, commenting on the largest defensive concentrations. Like a giant protozoan, the First Company of the Emperor’s Children, the Lions of Chemos- at least the portion of them that Kaesoron had taken into this strike, as the other half was putting down resistance elsewhere- crawled through the manufactorum’s hallways, absorbing enemy outposts and sending out tendrils of destruction. There were few turrets within the building, probably because it had never been meant for war. The Slodi’s moon station was created for those experiments safety said should not be conducted on the planet’s surface, and though it had since grown into a community of its own no one prepared more than contingency plans for its invasion.

Still, the contingency plans were there, and now they were being expressly used. Kaesoron stood with his back to an admantine wall, peering out a door into a rotunda and the most heavily defended entrance he’d seen yet.

This was it.

“Squads Wasnus and Kontarratz, prepare for assault. Wascero, get that wall open.”

Perio Wascero waved his hand, and fifty Devastators released their fire. The wall guarding the rotunda collapsed. Kaesoron was, for now, on its second floor; below, on the first, the guards scurried around in desperation.

Kaesoron ran at the head of Assault Squads Wasnus and Kontarratz as the rotunda opened before them. The First Captain ran through the railings, landing in a crouch on the first floor, directly before the guards.

He twisted left, slicing one defender in two; then he struck out ahead, spearing a servitor’s brain. Retrieving his sword, Kaesoron blocked a skitarii’s servo-arm, even as a lasgun blast aimed for his head went wide from Kontarratz’ blade.

A single cry began to be whispered by the outnumbered guards as ranks upon ranks of Astartes filed down from above. Kaesoron sliced a plasma gun open, splitting its owner’s arm down the bone. His pauldron absorbed a lasgun blast without so much as a tremor.

More and more of the defenders threw their weapons down and their hands up. The head of the Mechanicum contingent, a lumbering tech-priest with cannons for arms, fired point-blank at Battle-Brother Inius Acumarn; but Acumarn was avenged by his Sergeant, Wasnus shooting from an even closer distance than the tech-priest.

The sounds of battle ceased. The Lions of Chemos were victorious.

“Please spare us…” an Army soldier whispered.

Kaesoron ignored him and kicked open the door. It fell, not quite shattering but offering little resistance to an Astarte physiology.

“Surrender!” Kaesoron cried out.

Within, there were huddled masses of refugees, tech-priests tinkering with large cogitator screens, and apparent community leaders playing cards. Every one of them had a dejected expression, and many of the women- and some of the men- were crying. Every single person in the room with weapons threw them down as Kaesoron entered, his legion behind him, angels of death, cold burning in over a thousand eyes. Many threw up their hands as well.

“Please...” a refugee began, but Kaesoron signaled silence.

The order had been to have no mercy, that those who turned away from the Emperor’s light deserved death; and the military leaders would be executed without doubt. But what sort of black Crusade would it be if Kaesoron were to massacre civilians? There was no way to accept that, none at all. Now, as the battle-choler left him, he knew what must be done.

He was proud of his operation here- it was well-planned, well-executed, and well-fought. Besides, there had been no direct order to kill everyone- only traitors. Kaesoron sincerely doubted that every one of these weeping, pleading people had personally made the decision to turn on the Imperium of Man.

A quick search identified seventeen of the people in the room as major figuress in the community. Kaesoron voxed their descriptions to the members of Squads Tasaqus and Elaeran behind him, then ordered the Tacticals to open fire on them and three of the tech-priests present. Kaesoron would take the fourth.

“Magos Naissib,” he said, “order your forces to stand down.”

Naissib did so, and then the Lions of Chemos opened fire.

Twenty-one bodies hit the floor, Naissib the first to do so. Almost a hundred more souls remained.

“Live,” Kaesoron said. “And do not repeat your mistake.”

Turning, Julius Kaesoron walked out of the chamber with Wascero at his side. Each of their moods was somber; they knew they had done what had been necessary, what had been commanded, yet they took no joy in it.

It was in the rotunda that Kaesoron met Solomon Demeter, the Second Captain looking more choleric than melancholic now.

“How did you get here so quickly?” Kaesoron asked.

“My enemies surrendered,” Demeter said, “and I honored the terms! What have you descended to, Kaesoron?”

“Ehm, following the Primarch’s orders?!”

“There’s a time to take everything literally and then there’s a time to understand the underlying meaning. We should not kill surrendering men!”

“Not even if the Primarch ordered it directly?”

With Demeter stuck for words, Kaesoron continued. “This was what we were ordered to do for the Great Crusade. This is what we were ordered to do for the Emperor! War involves death, Demeter, you know that. And I only executed the leaders.”

“One of which-”

“One of which, like the others, betrayed the Emperor on Terra and his Imperium. We are the Children of the Emperor, Demeter. We needed to bring punishment. And though I agree what I did was wrong, any other course of action would have been even worse. Besides, do you think Daimon or Ruen would not have killed them all?”

“Ruen is a sadist. He’s the opposite of everything this Legion should be. Daimon… I’d expect something like this from Daimon, but not you, Kaesoron. Perhaps he would have killed them all, yes. So what?”

“Do not let your kindness take you into treachery, Demeter. This is my operation, and it was successful.”

Demeter stormed off without saying anything more. Julius Kaesoron, First Captain of the Emperor’s Children, lord of the Lions of Chemos, walked on silently.

“Do you think he was right?” Sergeant San Kontarratz asked.

The First Captain was not angry at the question because it truly was a question, the tone making that clear. “No,” he said, “it turned out well enough. It turned out perfectly. If I had executed no one, Fulgrim would have seen it as disobedience, I know that much. And by the Emperor, it would have been disobedience.”

He walked through ruined hallways of the idle manufactorum. There was no scratching here, no worry in the back of his head that daemons were about to burst through the aetheric divide between his realm and theirs. It was liberating, and Kaesoron considered the option of retreating to his own battle-barge, away from the tempting madness of the Pride of the Emperor. It would take him further away from the light that was Fulgrim, though. And he wasn’t going to turn away from his Primarch- that would simply be sick.

They were all sick already, though. And though he would not disobey his Primarch, as he walked through the manufactorum’s idle hallways, remembering the death-screams of twenty-one hardworking men and women, Julius Kaesoron dearly wished he could.


	10. Chapter 10

“Hold the line!” Marius Vairosean exclaimed through the vox-net.

The fighting on Slodi was somewhat difficult, though not any harder than he’d been led to believe. The Third Company had been deployed according to meticulously crafted plans, fought according to the ideals of the Legion, and now were on the verge of triumph, almost having arrived in the Governor’s Palace, where they were to meet up with the 25th and Dasara.

Vairosean knew that sending only two Companies to the heavily defended Slodi while the rest of the Legion idled above wasn’t the perfect plan in most situations; yet here, the Primarch had had reason to act thus. Vairosean required redemption, and sending in overwhelming numbers was rather contradictory to the concept.

Besides, even two Companies were enough to ensure Slodi would be conquered. Even half a Company would probably achieve that. Even though Dasara wasn’t answering his vox-calls ever since he’d become bogged down in fighting around the captial’s outskirts, Vairosean knew victory was assured.

The only question left was, how perfect a victory? Vairosean had so far led a campaign he was, unfortunately, proud of: he’d tried hard to get rid of the emotion, but this war deserved it if any war did. Against many renegade Army regiments, against ceaseless PDF and Mechanicum resistance, against two Titans, the only casualties Third Company had suffered were twenty-five wounded. Not one of Vairosean’s subordinates had died.

Dasara, with his unplanned and improvised approach to warfare- modeled, as those of increasingly many Companies’ were, on Solomon Demeter’s- had lost a full hundred Marines, battle-brothers whose only sin was to serve under such an incompetent and risk-taking Captain.

Well, Vairosean would ensure Dasara changed his ways. If this victory was, indeed, won without the blood of Vairosean’s warriors being spilled-

They needed to win it first. “Group Promethium,” Vairosean repeated as he sprinted into the palace via an underground passageway, “hold the line! Group Coal will meet up with you in a few minutes. Group Oil, continue your advance. There’ll be resistance soon- a supposed ambush in about a hundred meters.”

Vairosean, Group Homewood with him, continued to run through the catacombs. They had been spotted by now, though no forces had yet been dispatched against them. To his sides, Vairosean saw statues of the Old Night Builder-Kings of Slodi. Behind them were the elaborate entrances to tombs, locked forever shut- a monument to the hiding of truth and the worship of idols.

A few of the doors were open, monuments to raiders and vandals. For all the flaws of the Builder-Kings, Vairosean’s disgust with the open tombs was far greater than with the closed ones.

Gunfire lit up the corridor ahead, after a turn. Vairosean suspected it was an automated turret; to check, he motioned Duasnian to fire a rocket into the apparent source of the fire. The lascannon fell silent, having hit none of the Emperor’s Children.

But then the hallway once again filled with the sounds of war, a lasbolt bouncing- for now, harmlessly- off the Third Captain’s power armor.

“Children of the Emperor!” Vairosean cried, leading the charge as it rounded the corner.

“Death to his foes!” Group Homewood responded.

After firing three precise shots at the suddenly frightened Imperial Army- they weren’t precisely Imperial anymore, but that was the closest designation- Vairosean crashed into them.

“Surrender!” he cried, even as his powersword split a soldier in half.

The defenders never got the chance. The strategists in the palace had horribly underestimated Group Homewood’s strength. At the first moment when a normal human, with unaugmented reaction times, could have possibly responded to the Captain’s demand the last mortal resister collapsed to the floor.

“Casualties?”

“None,” Assault Sergeant Arbiaqurn answered. “No wounded. This was a scouting force; they didn’t have enough weaponry to pose a relevant threat.”

“Terogil, how long until we’re under the Throne Room?”

“Just a moment… um… six hundred meters from my position, two hundred from yours.”

“Brother-Sergeant, catch up, please. We run.”

The Third Company headed forwards at a breakneck pace once more, though it was nowhere near the maximum for an Astarte. They knocked down two more automated turrets, visible in the infrared despite the overall dark. Then they were standing, two floors below the Throne Room of Slodi, where the governor sat and plotted his counterstrikes.

“Location, Terogil?”

“A hundred meters behind your position, Brother-Captain. Coming… oomph… up.”

Being a Devastator certainly slowed Terogil down, but Vairosean was growing annoyed with the Sergeant’s lateness. Still, 250% of the Captain’s speed was acceptable.

“Open fire upwards,” Vairosean instructed.

The Devastators eliminated the ceiling in a crescendo of explosions.

Vairosean was the first through the breach, and he helped the Devastators onto the shaky surface of the first floor. They had erupted into a deserted triumphal hallway, lined with the busts of Imperial heroes; among them, Vairosean was amused to note, were those of the eighteen Primarchs. The loyalists’ visages were cloaked, but ten were yet visible- Lupercal, the Crimson King, Guilliman, Sanguinius, Russ, Corax, Mortarion, Jaghatai Khan, the Lord of Iron and a blank face that Vairosean assumed represented Alpharius.

They were rather well-done, actually. It would not do to risk them. “Move forward,” Vairosean commanded, “and burn a hole into the throne room.”

It was done.

Vairosean was again the first through the gap. The stolen schematics proved to be right once again: Group Homewood was, once more, where Vairosean had planned. The throne room stood nearly empty, with only the governor himself reclining in his seat. He was a middle-aged man, clothed formally, with a mixed expression of resignation and determination on his face.

“You’ve come to kill me,” he said.

“Indeed,” Vairosean responded.

“Then do so,” the governor said. “Another will replace me. But Slodi will resist to the last.”

“Surrender. Spare yourself and your world.” Vairosean knew what the governor was playing at: theoretically, his forces were even now surrounding the Throne Room, ready to kill Vairosean as soon as negotiations concluded. In reality, the Third Company had eliminated most of those forces and was methodically surrounding the remnants. But the Captain still hoped the governor would make the sensible choice, for there was no dishonor in logic.

“My world will fight no matter what. And myself… I have lived long enough, I think. But our determination is not futile, Space Marine; you have brought overwhelming force, enough to force most planets to surrender outright. I will die knowing we fought against the fury of dark perfection. And we killed your commander.”

The governor shoved a hand into his throne and showed Vairosean Dasara’s mangled head.

“Gruesome, I know,” the governor said, “but it proves a point. Your fleet is mighty, but you will suffer, even if you do win.”

“Dasara was not my commander,” Vairosean said with disgust, both at the man before him and at the failed Captain.

He shot the governor.

Immediately, the skitarii detachment about to enter the room opened fire, and Vairosean had to twist away from the shells. Some others weren’t so quick; Vairosean saw Arbiaqurn hit in the leg. Vairosean gave three precise shots at the tech-priests’ cerebrums, but only one of them fell; the others had, apparently, moved their brain matter somewhere else.

But it didn’t matter, as the survivors were lit up by a titanic blast from behind moments after Vairosean’s shots. The flame billowed out, and Squad Parstene moved in, the Sergeant’s plasma cannon on his shoulder. Two Imperial Army units rushed into the melee from the throne’s right, but to their left a large force under Vairosean’s second-in-command, Isitan Loisekuas, emerged from a colonnade. Vairosean dodged a blade belonging to one of the remaining tech-priests, then sliced the skitarii’s servo-arm off with his own sword. The tech-priest tried to swivel his gun, but Vairosean had predicted the movement and poked into the skitarii’s shoulder, causing the holding to crack. The skitarii kicked at the Astarte, but it was ineffective, as Vairosean’s bolter exploded his ribcage and the brain therein.

Vairosean tensed for the next enemy, but there was none. The Army ran- calling it a disorganized retreat would be a vast understatement. There were no tech-priests left, indicating any skitarii who’d survived Parstene’s attack had done likewise.

“What now, Brother-Captain?” Loisekuas asked.

Vairosean glanced at Captain Dasara’s head, its skull now cracked. Dasara had failed disastrously, and it was fortunate Vairosean was there to pick up the pieces. How could one possibly lose a hundred Astartes to this level of resistance? And that was before the engagement which had killed the Captain….

“Casualties?”

“Three wounded. None killed.” Apothecaries Tassiditus and Mastados, who’d accompanied Loisekuas in, were scurrying around and taking care of the injured.

“Very well. Loisekuas, stay here with the Devastator Squads, plus the Tacticals of… oh, Naekon and Asaetorto. Everyone else, with me to the war room. Iridius, you have the schematics, right?”

“Yes, Brother-Captain,” the Tactical Sergeant replied. “It’s another floor up, then a kilometer due north.”

“Then north.” The Squads Vairosean had selected followed after him, no longer at a run but rather at a quick walk. The wall of the throne room was broken down, revealing a stairway; the Third Captain marched up it, phlegmatic as ever. He did dearly hope the governor’s designated successor was there; if not, the campaign would drag on, despite the fact that victory was by now assured.

The Emperor’s Children walked behind Vairosean, silently, implacably. They were the finest warriors humanity had ever had. There were rumors of dark things on the ships, of course, of fratricide and debauchery; but Vairosean did not believe the tales. The Third Legion was above such things.

Vairosean entered the traitors’ war room at the head of a column that consisted of, perhaps, two hundred Space Marines; an intimidating sight for an unaugmented human. Perhaps it was telling that the skitarii and other tech-priests in the room simply turned to face Vairosean, some of them even preparing their weapons, whereas the humans’ reaction ranged from throwing their hands skywards to falling to their knees weeping. Perhaps they were simply beyond this imperfection.

“Who is the new governor?” Vairosean asked.

“I am,” one of the relatively resolute human women replied. “And I surrender.”

“I am glad you, at least, saw reason,” Vairosean said. “What are the codes?”

The woman told him, and the Captain typed them in. Within minutes, the automated defenses of Slodi were fully offline.

“Your world is fully within the embrace of the Emperor again now,” Vairosean said. “You will remain governor for as long as you see it stays that way.”

The mop-up and restoration of order would take a few days, but in that moment of surrender the first war of the Unbroken Stars campaign was over.

The Imperium of Man had won.

And Marius Vairosean was redeemed


	11. Chapter 11

Erikon Gaius, Twenty-First Captain of the Ultramarines, was not quite sure why this meeting had been called. It was not that he wasn’t aware the running of a government involved a lot of such meetings, some without any obvious purpose; he’d been involved in the ruling of Valhalla for a year near the beginning of his captaincy. But Carenn was a Hive World, and its government was bigger- and stranger.

The meeting wasn’t even run by the governor, Lady Ruler Itacia Remasna, but rather by her second-in-command, Vice-Governor Alarone Jaranuos.

“Now,” the vice-governor- a bald, but tall, man about the age of the governor- stated, “let us all stand up and sing our national anthem with the dance.”

“Let’s not,” the defense advisor- a younger man named Ulriader Sezemes, with whom Gaius had gotten along quite well- offered.

“You dare question my authority?”

“No, my lord, I-”

“Stand up! Now! Everyone- that includes you, Ultramarine!”

Gaius sighed and remained sitting. He didn’t know the national dance, and if he danced it, the floor would collapse.

“That-” the vice-governor tried again.

“No.”

The vice-governor seemed aback and ready to unleash a frightened, yet furious rant; but at that moment the governor rushed in.

“Alright, what’s going on here?” she asked.

“The lord vice-governor hasn’t taken his medication,” the manufacturing advisor guessed.

“This is not about-”

The governor sighed. “Jaranuos, Jakane, with me. The rest of you, do something useful. Good luck!” And she waltz-rushed out, tapping a familiar melody with her feet. Asazexia Jakane, the palace manager, dragged the vice-governor out; Jaranuos assumed a dissatisfied grimace, but shook her off and marched out on his own.

“I still say he’s senile,” Sezemes said. “Don’t know why the Lady Ruler keeps him around.”

“He’s a genius when he’s sane,” police advisor Yarosine Konscalles noted. “He’s just dependent on the medication. And anyhow, you shouldn’t disrespect your elders.”

Suitably chastised, Sezemes leaned back in his chair.

“Anyhow,” Konscalles continued, “there’s actually a reason I wanted this meeting called, before Jaranuos’ condition hijacked it. There have been a number of statistical anomalies lately. An unusual number of kidnappings, unexplained disappearances and suicides in the Attatti district. I’ve sent some of my best officers down there, and half of them haven’t returned. I need something more.”

“The Ultramarines,” Gaius offered.

Konscalles nodded. “It’ll probably be elementary for you, but we can’t handle the problem. Will you-”

“Naturally,” Gaius said, though even as he said that, doubts began to creep into his mind. Sezemes looked about to protest, so the Captain turned to him. “You can handle the defenses’ construction on your own, I hope?”

“Of course,” Sezemes said. “I do hope, however, that you will return.”

“We will most certainly return. We are Astartes, after all,” Gaius said. He suspected that something capable of taking down a world’s best Arbites was a real threat even to Space Marines, but he had a lot of warriors with him. Hopefully, that would be enough. “Is there anything else?”

“I have the newest imports report,” trade advisor Oralexi Zentonna offered, and everyone began hurriedly getting up to leave. Gaius walked out into the hallway with Sezemes, quickly voxing the fifteen Squads on Carenn’s surface to meet up with him; the defense advisor seemed rather sullen.

“I sincerely hope that you will return soon, Captain Gaius,” Sezemes offered. “I’m not sure how much of the operations my clout will keep running.”

“For Guilliman’s sake, I’ll be gone for maybe half a cycle! It’s one mission- get in, kill or negotiate, get out. We do things fast.”

“That,” Sezemes said, “is encouraging.”

Sezemes was a strong, determined man, if somewhat lacking in respect. He could have been a great Ultramarine, and had in fact passed the initial trials, but genetic incompatibility had kept him out of the Legion. He had, however, served a tour in the Imperial Army and returned to Carenn as an officer; there, he had proven himself to be an able politician and rapidly climbed the ranks. At only twenty-nine, he was in charge of the entire PDF and had a seat in the governor’s inner circle. His son, born before he’d left with the Army, was ten and would take the Legion trials in a couple of years; due to the quirks of heredity, that one was genetically compatible, and Sezemes sincerely hoped his child would be able to achieve what he hadn’t.

That child- Erikon Sezemes, not named after Gaius but after Ulriader Sezemes’ father- was not particularly strong physically, but possessed intelligence and determination that would take him far, whether he passed the Legion trials or not.

“Good luck, Sezemes. Keep everything running.”

“I’ll try to,” the defense advisor answered with a smile as Gaius headed towards the shuttle pad.

Tactical Squad Frasar, along with Devastator Squads Alasigines and Ionnases, were already there; Gaius dispatched them, under Veteran Sergeant Ionnases’ overall command, to watch over construction for the event something happened while he was gone. Besides, a hundred and twenty Astartes was enough to conquer the average planet; cleansing a Hive’s depths of criminals would be- not easy, necessarily, but almost certainly doable even with the decreased numbers, one would assume.

The other Squads arrived gradually, flowing in from construction sites around the city. Tactical Squads Orsono, Loppones, Xelarcal, Zunacles; Assault Squads Hardonisses, Thespates, Ebenos; Devastator Squads Marianes, Frazant, Pernitum. Tactical Veteran Sergeant Usalaguer, Gaius’ second-in-command, was among the last to arrive; he had been improving the details of the defenses within the Hive. The final Squad to come was Alarone Partaxen’s, the Devastator Sergeant explaining his absence by a meeting with a neighborhood association. “They wouldn’t let us in,” Partaxen noted, “not until we broke down the door; but I believe every single one of them has since resigned. It was entertaining.”

It was, indeed, entertaining, but Gaius had other things to worry about. He went over the theoreticals several times in his head, considering the worst-case scenarios because anything else posed no threat.

“We’ll go down in the gunships,” he explained, “and investigate. This starts out as a reconnaissance mission. Hopefully we won’t need to go into full combat mode; but be prepared, because something odd is down there.”

They did as the Captain said. The gunships- the new Thunderhawk pattern, which Gaius had repeatedly commended for its resilience despite the fact that many in the Legion despised it- swept down from the gleaming heights of the Hive City and their artificial atmosphere. Carenn might not have been as stratified as most Hive Worlds, but below Gaius still saw more dust and smoke than in these upper reaches.

The Thunderhawks wove their way between hole-riddled spires under the distant midday sun. Bleak shadows emerged as the five gunships banked sharply, now descending helically around the spire at whose base the incidents had occurred. They hurtled down, accelerating, the Marines within them feeling their gravity lighten; like colossal versions of the birds they were named after, the transports began to draw ever-wider rings around the hive. Now the fullness of the megastructure could be seen and appreciated; it was as big as a small asteroid, and it was alive with the masses of humanity. They were invisible from the gunships, but Gaius knew they were there, somewhere around and behind the intricately sculpted facades.

The descent slowed. Now the birds were gliding, almost parachuting to their final destination, as the golden star above from which the day drew its strength revealed hidden statues on the arcology. It was noon, and now Gaius could see, below, veritable forests of sparkling monuments, lit by mirrors to gleam in the sunlight, multicolored yet with an overall pattern to them. He stared, doing his best to combine that with steering the Thunderhawk.

“The Zenith Statues,“ Frazant noted.

“Indeed,” Gaius said. “Beautiful… But short-lived.”

The sun had passed its highest point; and the fragile order of the mirrors and skylights was lost. The beauty was lost, replaced by a disorganized mixture of lit and darkened areas.

“This is what happened to the Crusade,” Frazant offered, and Gaius had to appreciate how fitting the metaphor was. But in the mosaic, was Horus the light or the darkness? In here, isolated from Legion and Chapter, Erikon Gaius sometimes forgot a galactic war was going on; and that state of mind was one he much preferred to his current one.

The Thunderhawks dove lower, slowing down as they approached the police station where the abnormality had first been noted. Behind, the Hive City still rose, though its heights were now somewhat cloaked by the smoke of countless forges above the convoy. The industrial regions were nowhere near the output of a Forge World, but despite knowing all the statistics Gaius was still amazed at the sheer scale of production.

The smoke concentrated as the Hive deepened, and by the time the gunships knocked greetings to the airstrip at the Arbite offices, the air beyond the widening spire was murky. The Thunderhawks touched down into small reception bays; then, the pollutants were pumped out and cleansed. There were great machines above the smoke-layer that did something similar on a larger scale, if Gaius remembered correctly. Then the bays were bright again, and the grand doors opened.

As Gaius climbed out, one of the two policemen sent to greet him fainted.

“Er,” said the other, pouring out words in a continuous stream, “thank you for coming! We were told, but- Guilliman, this is lucky! What am I saying?! Thank you, thank you, the commander will see you now.”

He scurried in the direction of the commander’s office. Gaius followed, motioning his task force to stay put.

The commander, a large man with a large moustache, proved less impressible. “Hello,” he grunted. “Thank you for coming. I assume you want the situation?”

Gaius nodded.

“Well, the situation is this: 500% jump in disappearances, 30% jump in murders, 100% jump in suicides, and seven of the best police officers in all of Carenn dead- I think they’re dead, but we don’t even know that for sure. We’ve got a problem, lord Captain, some sort of black hole sucking in the people of my division. And as you understand, I don’t like it. I’m close to getting fired, but it’s obvious this rise has nothing to our efforts; so I’ll be simple. Here-” the commander pointed at a large map of what was probably the district- “is ground zero. That’s the epicenter, my statisticians reliably tell me.”

“And what’s there?”

The commander let out a roar of fury. “NO. ONE. KNOWS! I’ve sacrificed my career to end this thing, threw everything I had at it, threw everything the Carennian Arbites had at it- and we don’t even know what in the world it is!” He let out a string of strong curses, then continued his rant, interspersing it with similar profanity.

Gaius stood silently and listened to the commander until the human calmed down. It was clear this man was afraid, both for himself and for his district, but his reaction to subconscious fear was conscious rage. It was a useful trait to have, all in all.

“Anyway,” the man said, breathing heavily, “I’m sorry if I offended your sensibilities, but please. I beg you.”

“Farewell,” Gaius said.

“Farewell,” the frustrated commander answered.

The Space Marines ran into the Hive’s center alert and fully armed. Gaius knew they would look odd to the civilians around them, that the “anomaly” would know they were coming; but there was only so much that could be done to prepare for Astartes arriving.

No one bothered them. As the Space Marines negotiated the corridors and bridges that led them to the epicenter, no attack came. They trod through the heart of the spire, coming to an unremarkable structure nearer the other side- the fabled epicenter.

It was a tower, rising from the relative floor Gaius and the others were standing on; but its top, instead of ending in a pinnacle, spread out across a distant roof, a column in a human cavern. A typical hab-unit’s windows lined its outer walls.

Erikon Gaius of the Ultramarines knocked on the door.

A woman rushed out. She was middle-aged, though she had signs of a rejuv treatment’s early stages; her expression at seeing the Astartes was not one of surprise, but it demonstrated deep awe nevertheless.

“Come in, come in!” she said.

“First,” Gaius said, as threateningly as he judged the order of the Legion tolerated, “explain the disappearances.”

“We’re not- oh, the police are insane about this! Or stuck in bureaucracy, one of the two. You have to believe us- we’re just a church, but the police just write up all our converts as missing persons or murdered.”

“And what about the disappeared police officers?” Gaius dug, choosing not to mention that the Imperial Truth technically prohibited religion (or it did until- no, religion was still forbidden in Ultramar, and that was what mattered right now.)

“They understood the Word too. Come in, come in- I’ll explain. We only want peace, and yet we’re painted as murderers and kidnappers. Kartan!”

Meria Kartan was one of the supposedly-dead police officers. The woman who came out at the priestess’ request did look exactly like the photograph Gaius had been shown. Perhaps it was a fake, but it was looking more and more likely that the priestess was telling the truth- though there was probably a sinister undercurrent to this religion. Bureaucratic mistakes like the mentioned one happened, but not on Ultramar- Gaius assumed, though even that could be wrong.

“Show the Astartes around.”

“I would be honored to,” the former Arbite said with a bow.

“Alright,” Gaius proclaimed. “Put your helmets on; full combat readiness. Squads Zunacles, Thespates, Frazant, with me. Everyone else, stay outside.” He followed his own instruction and then looked at Kartan once more; she did match the picts and the downloaded records of body language, though the details were somewhat off- probably due to the lifestyle change.

She led them through the monastery. It was not unlike a Space Marine Legion’s fortress, with communal living a major focus. Gaius spotted, in passing, two more of the missing Arbites, as well as some other disappeared- though not one of the recorded murder victims showed up.

“We worship five gods,” the priestess explained as she led Erikon Gaius through the multitude of worship chambers, some with disturbingly human-like blood on the altars. “The first is the Rising Sun- that is the Emperor, of course, beloved by all.”

Here Erikon Gaius made his decision, and he barely listened as the woman explained about the High Sun- the god of honor, the Setting Sun- the god of compassion, and the New Moon- the god of hope. All the Captain noted was that the gods were viewed as quite real and concrete entities, which only reinforced his conclusion. He paid no attention to his surroundings, either, except to record a tactical overlay in case of hostilities.

His face plainly exhibited his disgust, but as it was veiled by his helmet, Kartan continued babbling.

“Thus the Full Moon,” the priestess concluded, “is the god of joy, who is also the goddess of joy. Here- smell the ceremonial incense.”

“No.”

“But I insist! We forbid-”

“No.” The woman shrank back, Gaius absentmindedly noted. “Now I will tell you what will happen. Religion is antithetical to the Imperial Truth. This organization has a two-month grace period to disband, after which the cult members will return to their duties and families. We’ll take care of the police records.”

“But please! Has my talk of honor not-”

“I have told you what will happen! And that, by Ultramar, is what will happen. I trust you will not resist?”

“No,” the priestess said. “Of course not.”

“Just remember,” Gaius concluded, “we will be watching.”


	12. Chapter 12

Marius Gage stood on the bridge of the Macragge’s Honour as madness rolled back.

The ship’s sensors clicked frantically as they began to detect comprehensible information. The viewports began to open as looking through them became a reasonable course of action. The Gellar fields became intangibly weaker as the outside clicked against them less and less.

And the Macragge’s Honour, along with the rest of the embassy of Ultramar to the Outer Sphere, descended from the roil of the Warp into the realspace of the Osinnden System.

That system was a fairly standard set of worlds in the galactic west of the Outer Sphere. Osinnden II, a Hive World, was the only inhabited planet, though there were agricultural settlements on the moons of the Osinnden III gas giant. Osinnden I was a charred rock; Osinnden IV and V were iceballs in the outer reaches of the system. Osinnden II was mostly notable for being the second-most-populous planet of the Sphere; beyond that, it wasn’t particularly special.

“Regent,” Ximeodon pointed out, “the Iron Hands fleet has been detected.”

Gage checked the sensor arrays; indeed, the Tenth Legion ships were in orbit around the Hive World. “Make full speed for Osinnden II,” he announced. “Check theoreticals a final time. Vestates, send my congratulations to the Navigator for managing to track the Iron Hands- I’m given to understand this sort of task is quite difficult.”

Vestates ran off. Gage, for his part, ran through the plan of battle one final time. It was relatively simple- the earlier engagement had left the Ultramarines with the firepower advantage, so it would suffice to corral the Iron Hands from escaping again (which the heading he was on would already do, stopping the Tenth Legion fleet from reaching either of the two jump points), then methodically eliminate their ships. Boarders were a concern, but there were as many Ultramarines under Gage’s command as there were Iron Hands under Sorpot’s.

The Ultramarines held the advantage, and they would eliminate the Iron Hands- no matter how much Gage hated to do so.

The Thirteenth Legion’s ships lazily swarmed towards the shining dot of Osinnden II hanging in the void. The enemy fleet did not attempt to make a break for the jump point; it remained hanging around the Hive world, in orbit, waiting.

“What are they doing?” Tactical Sergeant Arsetheus inquired.

“I’d guess preparing for us,” Ximeodon offered.

Gage plugged in the details of the inquiry into the sensors. A moment later, the answer came out.

“We’re too far away to see clearly,” the First Chapter Master offered, “but they appear to be active, and in geostationary orbit.”

The Ultramarines glided ever-closer to the green and black sphere of Osinnden II like great eagles, collected but hungry. They were approaching the Iron Hands ships from two sides- one fleet on the straight line to the system’s primary jump point, the other more or less blocking the escape route to the other two. The Iron Hands could, in principle, try evasive maneuvers; but Gage was good at countering evasive maneuvers.

“Humph,” Taplon said, having taken Gage’s place watching the sensors. “All of the Iron Hands are in geostationary orbit around Osinnden II, but above various Hives.”

“Observing?“ Ximeodon asked.

Taplon typed a few more commands into the sensor, and then the confusion in his expression turned to sadness, while the sadness turned to anger.

“No,” Taplon stated after muttering a few curses under his breath. “Not observing. Bombing.”

The image came up on the giant screen, filled with orange pain. A Hive City was crumpling under the methodical bombardment of the Iron Hands, titanic towers falling towards the distant ground. Its void-shields were by now completely gone, and though the Ultramarines were much too distant to see the individual people, the shuttles doing their best to dodge the falling debris made clear what the primary thought on the mind of this once-great Hive was.

“This is happening all over the planet,” Taplon said.

Gage clenched his fists. He tried to let the anger out for a moment, but then concluded that it was unnecessary to do so; the fury would only lead him to fight more determinedly. He had wondered how to fight other Astartes. Well, this was the answer.

This, Gage knew, was the way of the Imperium now. The Iron Hands, his cousins, had exterminated an entire world, killed hundreds of billions of civilians. No, not his cousins- not anymore.

His enemies.

Sorpot’s face appeared on a view screen, even as news of the massacre began to permeate the Ultramarines’ fleet.

“This is what will happen to every one of your rebellious worlds,” he taunted, though his expression was far from childish. “Death from the stars. No warning, no mercy. We will exterminate you!”

“No,” Gage answered. “Ultramar will stand. And to seal Osinnden II’s destruction, you sacrificed yourselves. Think on whether this was a worthy cause. Think about that now, for in twenty minutes you will be dead!”

Gage clenched his fists again, even as Sorpot cut the feed.

“Kill them,” the First Chapter Master ordered, on the verge of tears. “Kill them all.”

He did not regret the need for the decision, because the accursed Iron Hands didn’t deserve it. As the Ultramarines opened fire, Marius Gage directed them into more and more intricate patterns. There were slight deviations from the theoretical, but as black-painted fighters and frigates exploded, the Iron Hands recognized they were doomed. They fired back, mechanically, in great volleys of bleak light; they continued bombarding the Hive Cities on the surface; but through the maelstrom of Warp combat, Gage could trace the patterns that signaled the Iron Hands were behind.

The Ultramarine ships fired at maximum. A couple of fighters rammed into much larger Tenth Legion vessels, dragging them down into oblivion in directionless flame. The Iron Hand flagship headed towards the Macragge’s Honour, and Gage knew the Ninth Company of the Thirteenth Legion could take it apart if it so desired; but he did not give the order to concentrate fire, because it would be completely contrary to his goal.

“Let them board,” Marius Gage commanded. “I want to see them die.”

Sorpot’s vessel continued on its trajectory towards the Macragge’s Honour, spinning like a torpedo as it hurtled toward its final destination. Even as it did so, it fired down, electronically switching guns every second to ensure that it caused the maximum destruction, to ensure that it defeated the point as much as possible, to carve- as much as possible- the message that the Iron Hands within it were no longer anyone linked to Gage.

They were no longer even human. They were machines; dark machines. A legion of swords aimed at mankind’s heart, at Ultramar’s heart. It was Gage’s duty, the Ultramarines’ duty, to turn them aside.

“Remember!” Gage voxed. “This is what the Imperium is now! This is what the Iron Hands are now! They are no longer our cousins, brothers. They are malice in Astarte form. But they can still be killed- so do the favor to the great people they once were, and end these daemons of the Materium!”

Sorpot’s ship was on the verge of impacting Gage’s when the Regent gave the command to abruptly swerve. Sorpot had been expecting the maneuver, though- which, in turn, Gage had counted on- and shot already prepared boarding torpedoes towards the nearby surface of the Macragge’s Honour.

“Boarders!” Ximeodon screamed through the vox, even though Gage already knew.

“About eighty Iron Hands,” Gage commented. “Repel; practical null-zeta.”

Null-zeta called for the Ultramarines to spread out and eliminate a foe of comparable strength to them gradually, with heavy use of the ship’s defenses. It also called for the Astartes’ leader to head the finishing blow, and it was as much for that as for its effectiveness that the Regent of Ultramar chose it.

Of course, that effectiveness- being the plan which had seemed most promising against Astartes in the theoreticals- had played a leading role in Gage’s choice. He did, after all, have to restrain himself from excessive battle-lust; that led to sloppiness. He did a few quick breathing exercises to calm his choler, recognizing that the Iron Hands’ inhumanity only made it more vital for him to preserve his rationality. He did not want to become anything like these slaughterers.

Still, sometimes death was necessary, or even desirable. Marius Gage took out his weapons.

“What is the situation?” he asked Ximeodon.

The bodyguard looked at the ship’s sensors for a moment, after which his expression became slightly worried. “Regent,” he said, “they’re approaching the bridge. Still… fifty-one Iron Hands remaining, of eighty-eight, and twenty Ultramarines lost in skirmishes.”

“We will remember them,” Gage said. He wondered for a moment whether his eagerness to fight personally had doomed them, but if Sorpot’s flagship had been eliminated, the rest of the battle would have been much more difficult for the Ultramarines. As it was, the Tenth Legion’s fleet was virtually destroyed. The best the Iron Hands could now do was hurt the Ultramarines dearly.

And they were doing that, because what did a sword care who it killed? What did a sword know of surrender? Of course, the Ultramarines would never accept it, not now. And the Iron Hands had once been great…

An explosion at the door put Gage out of his thoughts and onto his stomach. Sorpot of the Iron Hands strode in, a giant in black and silver plate. He wielded a titanic war hammer, even now thundering with the urge for devastation. His face was scarred, but the Iron Father had made decorations of the wounds, littering his face with silver lines.

It was pretentious.

With a roar, Vestates threw himself at the Iron Father, his rage even greater than Gage’s own. Feeling the choler rising in him once more, the Regent breathed heavily once more, getting up and raising his weapon.

Some particularly enthusiastic Iron Hands had rushed ahead of the duel, and Gage bisected one of them as he hurtled past. Another swung at him, but Gage dodged before impaling the thing that had once been a Space Marine. He followed it up by deflecting a strike from yet another attacker. His powersword slid past, cutting into the enemy’s power armor even as his bolter screamed the death of yet another in the distance.

Turning, he saw Sorpot, having outplayed Vestates, crushing the Ultramarine’s head with his titanic hammer. With a cry of piercing loss, Gage launched his body towards the Iron Father, turning the hammer aside from another of his brothers’ cerebrums.

“So you are the chief traitor!” Sorpot boomed, even as Ultramarine reinforcements rushed into the bridge. “Know this before you die: my hatred for you was well and true.”

“My hatred for you,” Gage said in response, even as a blow from the Iron Father’s hammer shattered his left wrist, “is twisted by your evil!”

Sorpot cackled as pain suppressors flooded the hand. Gage could tell it would reknit itself together; still, he had to end this battle quickly. His sword rang against Sorpot’s hammer once, twice, every time forcing the combat further and further right. As Sorpot’s sonic hammer punched a hole through the floor, Gage brought up his left hand and, struggling to keep it together, fired.

The Iron Father’s head exploded in a final scream. It was not one of pain, but of triumph, as his hammer shattered Gage’s blade; but he was too dead to enjoy that victory for long.

Around him, the story was repeating itself. Iron Hands lay dead across the bridge. The remaining forces of the Tenth Legion continued to advance, and Gage allowed himself to be shoved to the back of the Ultramarines. He executed a wounded Iron Hand therein, before allowing an Apothecary to come to him.

As his wrist was worked on, Gage considered the battle’s results. A few Ultramarines had died, Vestates among them, but overall casualties were less than he had expected. Perhaps the mood of utter annihilation, the pure hate for the Iron Hands, had led to a greater disregard for one’s own life and a greater density of attacks. Perhaps that was the key to fighting Astartes- there was no way to defend oneself? Or perhaps, as for Gage, the solution had simply been the loss of any mercy or regret.

“That was risky,” Taplon said as he walked up to his Chapter Master. “If you had hesitated….”

“I didn’t,” Gage said. “I couldn’t have. Not against the Imperium, especially these cursed monsters.”

Taplon nodded. He was quite intelligent- perhaps he would become a Champion one day. A Tetrarch, even. “You could have hesitated, but not then. The heat of battle rarely takes you, Regent, and you fight as if it were a theoretical; not here.”

“Indeed,” Gage said. “This was as far from a theoretical as one could get.”

“Anything else?” Taplon asked as he prepared to walk back to his station, combat being over.

“Finish off their fleet and start the rescue mission,” Gage said. “Oh, and have a new sword made.”


	13. Chapter 13

Marius Vairosean had expected a triumph upon his return to the Pride of the Emperor. He had, after all, subdued a planet with no Astarte casualties. Slodi was his victory, even as it was Dasara’s doom. True, the world was minor, but no casualties against fierce resistance was a success hard to believe, the result of truly incredible preparatory work.

Marius Vairosean had expected a triumph upon his return to the Pride of the Emperor. But Emperor, he hadn’t expected such a triumph!

He was standing now at the head of a detachment of Sergeants, parading through the Triumphal Way. There was a celebratory mood Vairosean had never seen before Laeran, but which had since become infectious after every major victory. Yet the celebrations were even more extreme than before, almost seeming like an attempt to distract.

The Third Company strode through the Triumphal Way, their march echoing off the vast hallway, guards and statues flanking their path. There were more skulls than during his last visit, Vairosean noted; perhaps Eidolon had participated in another campaign, or perhaps some Captain was imitating the Lord Commander. Neither scenario much excited Vairosean, but Fulgrim had, however, given his assent to the skulls, and it was not Vairosean’s place to question his Primarch, ever.

The procession approached the Phoenix Gate, and Vairosean saw Lord Commander Eidolon standing at the entrance, proud and almost paternal. Next to him, and dwarfing the Lord Commander in every way possible, stood the Primarch himself. Fulgrim was in full military gear, and the expression on his face was similar to Eidolon’s, but genuine.

“I congratulate you, Brother-Captain Vairosean,” he said with a smile. “That was… exquisite.”

“It was my duty,” Vairosean answered. “My redemption. It had to be as perfect as possible.” It did, and it was.

“And the greatness of this campaign was undeniable.” Fulgrim raised his head to take in the full parade. “I congratulate you, Marius Vairosean, Third Captain of the Third Legion. The victory feast will be in a quarter of a cycle.”

It was the conclusion; loud music played a triumphal coda, and Vairosean wondered at when the last campaign without had been. He remembered that Verona had led one, for which he had been promoted to Lord Commander within a month; but the war for Analasse had been thirty-two years ago. He remembered it well, along with Fulgrim’s pride. Perhaps Verona’s execution had simply been a product of Fulgrim’s great expectations.

Vairosean dearly hoped he wouldn’t share the same fate.

As the Third Captain departed towards his rooms, he felt a tug at his left arm. Turning around, he noted Solomon Demeter, unhelmeted and grinning with true joy. “Great to see you back, in this sort of victory,” the Second Captain said.

“It took a lot of preparation,” Vairosean noted. “And really, it wasn’t-”

“The last time this happened was before Verona’s promotion to Lord Commander, thirty-two years ago. It was amazing.”

“Thank you. But Dasara-”

“Who cares?”

Vairosean exhaled, feeling a bit of choler. “Dasara was a Captain. Our brother. Neither of us liked him, but it is a horrid evil to enjoy his death.”

Demeter solemnly nodded, exhibiting clear remorse that made Vairosean feel he’d spoken too harshly. “You’re right; I apologize. The Twenty-Fifth….”

“The Twenty-Fifth suffered horrid losses, and in all honesty their absence disappoints me. They did not deserve a triumph, perhaps, but their contribution was vital.”

“You could have won alone.”

“Not without deaths.”

Demeter nodded. “But in any case, you did win, without deaths, and I can’t bring myself to regret a campaign that did that. And- and we need you here.” Vairosean tilted his head in inquiry, and Demeter eagerly continued. “The Legion’s decay- that which Fulgrim had braked- is accelerating again. Kaesoron massacred surrendering civilians. Abranxe killed one of his Sergeants for entertainment. Ruen took prisoners in the campaign on the research station, and is currently torturing them.”

“I find that hard to believe. And Fulgrim-”

“Fulgrim is devoted to the god, the one called Slaanesh. He no longer acts to stop any of that- well, he censured Abranxe, but mildly. He directly supported Kaesoron’s act. Does Fulgrim even follow the Emperor anymore, Vairosean?”

It was a heretical question, an unimaginable possibility; but if all that Demeter said was true (and the Second Captain blatantly believed it), then the impossible became possible rather quickly.

“I will not react with anger,” Vairosean nevertheless said, “but I am still loyal to our Primarch. I will consider your words, Solomon Demeter, but I will not heed them. Probably. Farewell.”

“Farewell,” Demeter replied, still warmly, and they parted.

Vairosean walked to his chambers, trying to suppress the doubt. It was not his place to question Fulgrim; and Demeter could have been misled. The fact of command, the ideal of honor, demanded that Vairosean not even entertain the possibility Fulgrim was a traitor; but to have heard the worst rumors from the fleet, confirmed just like that…

Fulgrim was supposed to be returning the Legion to order. What had happened? It was all so sudden….

Vairosean shook his head. A triumph had happened, one even greater than Vairosean had expected. It was utterly ungrateful to doubt the Legion now, of all times.

Mentally exhausted from the suppression, the Third Captain entered his room and gazed at his collection. He set Tawanaer’s fifth installment in the Cycle of Music to play softly as he concentrated on a simulation of the Slodi campaign, from Dasara’s point of view. Unsurprisingly, it was about as difficult as his half. As he sent Loisekuas to link up with Dasara’s forces, he winced at how badly the cogitator was mismanaging the operation. Perhaps he was, indeed, too humble; Dasara’s failure had come against strong resistance, and it hadn’t been that much worse than Vairosean had predicted.

Still, even doing the simulation for the first time, Vairosean managed to limit losses to thirty deaths and survive personally. That was a significant improvement on Dasara’s results, despite being distracted; and the Twenty-Fifth Captain had achieved that rank for a reason. Vairosean still did not know what engagement, precisely, had killed Dasara; it was beside the point anyways. The better question was what had led to the deterioration of his strategic ability.

After checking the time (three hours remained until the feast), Vairosean searched for Dasara’s previous campaign on his cogitator. The ship’s common net it had been a month prior, and the largest change since then was a modification to Dasara’s brain done by Lord Commander Fabius.

That was not a good sign. Besides, even those who had accepted non-mental modifications had become more chaotic- Solomon Demeter was a good sign (though, of course, Demeter had always been chaotic). Perhaps Lord Commander Fabius’ modifications were at the root of the changes?

And the changes in the Legion had started after Laeran, at that, simultaneously with Bile’s modifications. The only question was: had the sinister alterations touched Fulgrim? Had this injury to the Legion’s ability, the Legion’s perfection, touched the Primarch?

Well, Fulgrim had been noted to be spending all his time with Lord Commander Fabius….

Gears clicked within Vairosean’s mind. That explained everything- Kaesoron’s mercilessness, Ruen’s cruelty, Dasara’s foolishness. It was hurting the Emperor’s Crusade, too. There was no way this traced itself to the Emperor. Vairosean would have shot the surrendering men if that was the honor system of the Imperium now; but blatant failure was not acceptable in any system.

Of course, there were still questions. It was still not clear how the Warp entity, Slaanesh, fit into this- perhaps it was one of Fabius’ accomplices? And just how disloyal were Fabius and Fulgrim?

No. All of this was just theory. Fabius and Fulgrim were not disloyal. Turning his cogitator to statis, he cleaned his armor at a slightly accelerated pace and was in the Triple Fall slightly earlier than his graph had called for. He waited for Isitan Loisekuas there, and then headed to the Heliopolis, walking the Triumphal Way for the second time in a cycle, though this time without ceremony.

They arrived at the Phoenix Gate together. Two of the Guard blocked the way.

“Captain Marius Vairosean.”

“Subcaptain Isitan Loisekuas.”

“This one is not a member of the Brotherhood,” one of the Phoenix Guard said.

“He is my guest,” Vairosean said. He had specifically cleared this with the Primarch before the triumph, getting the right to have Loisekuas visit.

“Very well,” the other Guard replied. Vairosean wondered if Fabius’ implants, if they were indeed the malice’s cause, were within the Phoenix Guard too. It seemed likely, given their closeness to the Primarch.

The Captain did his best to clear such thoughts from his mind as he entered the Heliopolis. Loisekuas hurried off to find his seat, whereas Vairosean descended to his own, near the amphitheater’s center. Demeter sat next to him, silent for now, awaiting the Primarch. The amphitheater began to fill up with the Captains and other senior staff of the Legion. Lord Commander Fabius was among the last to arrive, with only an exhausted Saul Tarvitz following him. Vairosean looked at the Tenth Captain in question.

“Debating Lucius is tiring,” Tarvitz responded.

Fulgrim appeared, as always, precisely on schedule. His light skin glittered in the piercing illumination, and his expression radiated confidence and contentment, as well as the devotion to further perfection. He lowered himself into his throne and cast an overall gaze on the Heliopolis. He picked out, and Vairosean copied, the disgraced Abranxe, his proud blood-brother Heliton, Lucius’ replacement Jaenispius, the ever-vain Eidolon, the contemplative Vespasian, Tarvitz, Kaesoron, Demeter, and others; the Brotherhood of the Phoenix had been gathered.

“We gather here today,” Fulgrim pronounced, his voice as a thunderclap, “to remember the victories past. Let us remember, then, the truly wondrous achievement of Marius Vairosean! Marius, I take it your victory will be sufficient for you to accept Lord Commander Fabius’ enhancements?”

“Ah, yes,” Vairosean said when it became clear Fulgrim was awaiting a response. “I will schedule a time, my lord.”

“Marvelous,” Fulgrim said. “Let us remember that Marius Vairosean of the Third Legion’s Third Company conquered the planet Slodi without a single one of his Astartes falling. Let us remember that, despite this, the conquest was far from perfect.”

“Captain Dasara of the 25th,” Fulgrim continued in magnificent fashion, “fell in battle after his forces were torn apart. He was my son, and I mourned him; yet his own tactics brought on his failure. But in a sense, those tactics were closer to perfection than Vairosean’s. For perfection is not simply the geometric ideal of winning a war most efficiently, is it? It is, too, the living, beating ideal of joy. It is improvisation in the midst of fierce battle. It is the tactics of Solomon Demeter that must pave our way forwards. Excessive preparation is similar to breaking through a wall it would be much easier, and more elegant, to walk around. It is the antithesis of perfection.”

Vairosean tried to calm his choler, but the Phoenician wasn’t finished. “Many among this Legion worship the deity Slaanesh. I endorse this faith; but we must remember we are soldiers, and holy to us is war, not peace. We must make our temple on the battlefield. We must not kill our brothers, their pain a sacrifice; we must use as a sacrifice the pain of our enemies. We must not take joy in decay shipside, but in madness planetside. Worship the Dark Prince in war, and perfection will come.”

Slaanesh.

“I understand,” Vairosean said coolly and severely. “Permission to leave for contemplation?”

“Marius, your victory was amazing for what it was. Yet you have greater things ahead of you. Yes, you may leave; but remember I am in no way taking away your triumph.”

So that Fabius can still call me on my promise and corrupt me.

Without a further word, Marius Vairosean stormed off.

He considered the events, outside, in light of the conspiracy theory. Perhaps it was false; perhaps Fulgrim’s conversion had been a political decision, and the Legion’s failure a natural process. But even in that case…

“Does Fulgrim even follow the Emperor anymore?” Demeter had asked.

And the Captain knew that, whether the Phoenician was aware of it or not, his Primarch was a traitor to the Imperium, sowing chaos and failure.

And Marius Vairosean accepted that he would turn away from the Legion to face the Emperor.


	14. Chapter 14

Solomon Demeter was aghast.

There were simply no words describing the Primarch’s cruelty now. To have raised Vairosean so high, only to dash him against the rocks….

“What has Fulgrim done?” he asked Julius Kaesoron.

The First Captain remained silent.

“This was madness. What did Vairosean do to-”

“Open your mind, Demeter,” Kaesoron answered. “Reply to your own question. What has Fulgrim just done?”

There was a strong exasperation evident in Kaesoron’s voice. Demeter watched him closely, but as always, no expression could be read in the First Captain’s blank helmet, bobbing through the vastness of the Triumphal Way as the Captains walked from the Heliopolis.

What had Fulgrim done, indeed? The Phoenician had turned the Legion to a new tactical paradigm, completely changing the Legion’s combat doctrine for no apparent reason. He had officially endorsed the worship of Slaanesh. When Vairosean had left, the Primarch had casually mentioned rebellion- a nonsensical thought if there was one; Vairosean would never betray the Legion and the Emperor, not even if it was right.

Not even, in all probability, if Demeter did. It had been shocking to hear the Third Captain’s tepid reply to Demeter’s clumsy intimation before the assembly; Demeter had expected him to simply turn away. It had been a necessary risk, and the words had sounded much better in his mind….

But they were unrelated to Fulgrim’s speech. That laid out what Demeter now recognized as a massive course correction to the Legion, one not unlike the one that had happened after Laeran, or when the crack down on immorality had began. The definition of perfection was being altered constantly now; the Legion was ever-changing, and even its basic foundations were mutating.

“He changed everything,” Demeter said, recognizing Kaesoron was still awaiting a reply. “He flipped the Legion on its head.”

“By the Emperor- he justified you, Solomon! He endorsed your ways!”

“I fight best in melancholy, not joy.”

“Slaanesh is a deity of both pleasure and pain!” Kaesoron was agitated- not only excited, but also deeply bothered by something. “And your campaigns are precisely the perfection that Fulgrim spoke of. I will change my ways; other Captains will retain them; but you, you were ahead of your time. The Phoenician has redeemed you, Demeter!”

And, came the unspoken conclusion, this is how you respond?

It was a potent argument, and a true one. Demeter’s Primarch had done everything the Second Captain had asked of him. He had reformed the worst aspects of the Legion and the remembrancers; he had near-pardoned Demeter’s threatening Eidolon; he had given Demeter’s best friend a triumph of unique scale; he had, now, actually reformed the Legion’s military doctrine to match Demeter’s. The Second Captain of the Emperor’s Children was distant from his Primarch, that much was true. So Fulgrim had done everything in his power to bring Demeter back.

And this was how he repaid his gene-father?

“I- I’m sorry,” Demeter said.

“You are,” Kaesoron said, “but you need not be. Besides, there’s no use in apologizing to me. You have been in the darkness, and Fulgrim alone has devoted everything to enlightening you, to joining you into our brilliant path. It has blinded us all with its radiance; but you alone lacked the faith to walk forward unseeing.”

“You speak like a Word Bearer,” Demeter noted.

“That is the way of the galaxy now. Fulgrim was forced to endorse Slaanesh, simply because the Legion grew to worship him. We are a religious species, Demeter.” Kaesoron shook his head. “But forgive me. You can apologize to Fulgrim if you wish. I have a feeling he is more concerned with Vairosean now- though I will accept that, if my operation had been so disrespected, I would have been offended.”

Demeter nodded, even as Kaesoron walked off the Way. He remained on it, wondering at how he had not seen this. The truth had been staring him in the face! He, filled with inertia, had been unwilling to improvise, not even recognizing that he was hurting the Primarch in doing so.

“Emperor…”

Demeter laughed. For the first time in months, he laughed with true joy. There was rot, but there had always been rot. There were obstacles, but the Astartes had been created to destroy obstacles.

His voice died down, somewhat awkwardly, but Demeter continued down the Triumphal Way with a smile. He did not look at the skulls; what did he care about Eidolon? The Primarch, he knew, cared for him, and indeed for all of the Captains, as well as for the mad Lord Commander. Approaching his studio, he considered cancelling the tragic statue he’d asked Delafour for, but thought better of it. The galaxy was still in a horrible war. All that had changed was that Demeter was now certain of his place in it.

He looked at his painting of the clash between Legions, now almost complete. Almost absentmindedly, he sketched in a glimmer of dawn behind the Emperor’s Children. The light fit in surprisingly well; it was night, and yet through the skyfall justice inevitably arose.

Demeter continued work, painting in the scene’s details as the Pride of the Emperor disengaged from the orbit of Slodi. He felt the acceleration as it hurtled towards the Warp jump, as the Third and other Companies fell away into their own vessels, to pursue their own quests through the rebellious worlds of the Unbroken Stars. Fulgrim, and under his command the Second Company, would head for the sector’s effective capital, a Forge World named Kaosen that had broken away from Mars when Ferrus had subdued the Mechanicum’s heart. Along the way, they would suppress any and all rebels they found.

He didn’t leave the studio until the image was all but complete, and then only because he felt the need to ask forgiveness from his Primarch as soon as possible. He knew Fulgrim would be difficult to find, but whenever the Pride of the Emperor entered Warp Fulgrim would stand on the observation deck and gaze out the illuminators. The Phoenician was often alone there, or accompanied by only Lord Commander Fabius; what, exactly, he saw out the vast windows was a matter of much conjecture. Tarvitz had once suggested an idea he had heard from Lucius, the concept that Fulgrim was communing with Slaanesh; but Demeter doubted the Primach was so closely linked to the god.

In any case, Fulgrim would be on the observation deck by now, so it was there Demeter headed. The closest path was through the remembrancers’ halls, but the Second Captain eschewed those paths now, even with a helmet. More and more of the remembrancers were leaving the fleet. Delafour had suggested they feared executions, which seemed logical; art could not flourish in a threatened atmosphere. It was regrettable indeed that it had to be so, but the Primarch’s hand had been forced in punishment.

It was unfortunate, but there were many unfortunate matters in the galaxy now; they would not cloud his clarity of purpose, Demeter resolved.

He walked into Captain Korander of the 37th shortly after that resolution. Korander was hurrying to the drop-pods, late for departure for one reason or another.

“Demeter!” the other Captain yelped.

“Brother-Captain Korander.”

“Listen, Demeter,” Korander mumbled, “where are we?”

Demeter took a moment to consider the question, then gave the coordinates. “Hallway 3-Beta, in other words.”

Korander took a look around, as if seeing the path for the first time. “I didn’t recognize it, what with all the… flesh. Haven’t been outside the Apothecarion for a while.”

Korander’s chosen implantation- improved legs, based on Demeter’s own modifications but much more advanced- had taken a particularly long time for Lord Commander Fabius, and almost killed the 37th Captain.

“Good luck,” Demeter said. “May the gods of battle watch over you.”

“I’d prefer to fight without any gods,” Korander said. “But that’s impossible now.”

The 37th Captain ran on, leaving Demeter to continue on towards the observation deck. It was a long walk, one that spurred Demeter’s wonder at the changes going on. Korander had been the second-to-last; now, among the Captains, only Marius Vairosean had not received Fabius Bile’s modifications. Many of the Sergeants had, too, and even some ordinary Battle-Brothers. Rylanor hated it.

But Demeter knew the truth was always more complex. Fabius desired the best for the Legion, of that he had no doubt. Fulgrim would never have become so closely involved with the Apothecary’s work otherwise. The Lord Commander was, however, overeager and somewhat overconfident; this did not exactly breed trust in many of the Legion’s soldiers.

Rylanor isolated himself. Fabius had also been isolated, in his own way, along with Korander. Fulgrim was a Primarch, and thus always separate. Now the Legion was dividing across the Unbroken Stars.

Of the entire Emperor’s Children, it seemed only Demeter and Kaesoron were connected to the Legion’s many heartbeats. They had a truly gargantuan amount of influence.

And how Demeter had misused that power! He resolved his mistake would end soon.

“Lord Primarch?” Demeter asked as he emerged onto the observation deck.

Fulgrim was watching the jump point. The ship waltzed ever closer to that portal into the impossible, and it seemed to Demeter that the mad colors of the Warp were already shining through into realspace.

Fabius was not there, nor was anyone else. Fulgrim’s visage seemed mildly irritated for a moment, then turned into a smile. “Solomon! I’m glad to have you here!”

Demeter nodded. “Lord Father, I- I wanted to apologize.”

“For what? Have you committed some horrific sin I know nothing about?”

Demeter sighed. “I doubted you, Father.”

“In these days, there is no evil in that. Come- watch with me.”

Demeter walked up to his lord, who dwarfed him, a wisp-boned titan. They stood together as the ship’s Gellar fields engaged, as the very fabric of reality began to depart.

“I believed the Legion was sliding into ruin.”

Fulgrim cracked a slight smile. “Why?”

“The acts of those like Ruen, Lucius and Abranxe.”

“They are merely worshipping Slaanesh as they can, Solomon.”

“If the god leads one to commit fratricide, why worship it?”

Rage flashed across Fulgrim’s features for a moment, and Solomon winced; but the anger was fleeting. After an instant, the Phoenician was thoughtful, and after a few more he had an answer. “Slaanesh is more than torture, Solomon. It has various aspects. You might find a few to your liking, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

“Try it. Try worshipping the god. And you will see that you will be rewarded.”

Demeter nodded. Fulgrim’s plans were law on the Pride of the Emperor, and even without considerations of loyalty this made sense. If only monsters like Dasara and Ruen could gain favor with Slaanesh, if only their devotion found itself within the so-called god, then Slaanesh was indeed fundamentally evil. But pleasure and pain were not in and of themselves dark.

Besides, he had talked of gods of battle before, in jest. Now that he knew such beings were real….

“How do I take the first step?”

“Simply watch with me. You would be the first of my sons to do so, you know.”

And Demeter watched. He watched as the Pride of the Emperor sunk deeply into the abyss of the Warp. He watched creatures that imprinted themselves onto his retinas without allowing his consciousness to piece the beasts together. He watched rings and helices spiral in ever-more-complex patterns on the view screen. He watched dimensions that he knew weren’t supposed to be visible even to an Astarte eye.

He watched it all, his mind throbbing with the nonsensical input of information; he could not turn his head away. He saw civilizations rise and fall. He saw species come into existence and go extinct. He saw planets be forged in the heat of young stars, cool, become blue, become green, become grey, then become red and die in the baking heat of an ancient sun. He saw coagulations of man and xeno. He saw agglomerations of light, beings of pure energy, creatures that moved faster than light yet never shifted a single meter. He saw a titanic fortress, its ramparts spewing blood. There was an infinite maze of which Solomon saw every detail, yet understood nothing. A garden was shining, full of filth and decay yet pulsing with eternity. And there was a wondrous palace, its towers decorated with the most intricate architecture and art Demeter had ever seen…

Demeter awoke a day later, the Pride of the Emperor still in the Warp. He remembered little of his visions- only his thoughts, which described the unthinkable. He felt no desire to return to the observation deck, and accepted Fulgrim’s sort-of-apology.

But his resolve to the Prince of Pain and Pleasure, to the god known as Slaanesh, became unmovable.


	15. Chapter 15

Erikon Gaius was walking on scaffolding when the first rocket hit.

He felt it immediately, a shaking that knocked down his delicate balance. Gaius grabbed onto a metal support, doing his best to hang from enough points of support not to break the plasteel- but to be fixed enough not to hurtle into the abyss, as he had felt his safety cable torn in two.

“Activate missile defenses!” he screamed into his communicator, though he dearly hoped Usalaguer had done that already. It was impossible to use retinal displays to check; Gaius’ helmet was off to calm the normal humans, and the construction wasn’t supposed to turn into a combat situation.

Now it had, and the Captain decided to put on his helmet as soon as he reached stable ground. He crept along a set of planks, redistributing his weight so as not to risk crushing them; he still remembered practicing this as an Initiate, though then it had not really been a theoretical- merely a dexterity exercise.

As he clambered, Gaius saw, far to his north, the traces of the blast. A great chunk of the Hive was missing, the police offices within them. A fiery, white sphere was gradually expanding, and within it metal and composites toppled into the great emptiness below. To his west, above the defense department, a missile collided with a counter, the two rockets harmlessly exploding against each other in the upper atmosphere. Eastwards, in the gap between the government’s spire and the adjacent-end residential one, lasers shot down a twin salvo; but the missiles’ forward momentum was sufficient to carry them forwards, dropping down and exploding far below Gaius.

The building shook once more. The Ultramarine Captain held on to his support, slightly rocked but fortunately not kicked off, thanks to Astarte reflexes. The invaders were, Gaius noted, targeting exclusively the government’s central Hive- a sign that they were well aware of Carenn’s structure. In fact, perhaps the reason they had not been noticed was that they were receiving aid from traitors on the planet’s surface?

Traitors. They certainly wouldn’t consider themselves traitors, Gaius had to admit that, in the abstract, betraying Ultramar could be considered a lesser wrong than betraying the Imperium. If the truth became widely known, there would be many, many Imperial sympathizers among the populace, especially if Prospero was presented as rumor and not fact.

As another rocket impacted, Gaius cursed the slow pace of work responsible for the defenses being unfinished. It was understandable, but the galaxy was at war, and attack could come at any time. He was shoved off one of the beams from his hesitation; retaining his grip on the other one, he nevertheless felt it shake.

Just a little bit more. Gaius hung onto the plank as gently as he could, trying to delay its inevitable collapse. The ledge of the Hive was drawing ever closer, and as he felt the metal give way Gaius jumped. It was an easy enough leap, for a Space Marine, and Gaius walked into the spire without looking back.

His comm beeped, and the Twenty-First Captain of the Ultramarines remembered to put his helmet on.

“What’s the situation?” he inquired. “Who’s attacking?”

“Missiles are coming from the lower levels of the Hive, Captain,” Frazant reported. “No sign of ships in orbit.”

Of course. No invasion had been seen because there had been no invasion.

“Spire Gamma,” Usalaguer specified. “Base, approximately level twelve. There were a lot of rockets there, and we weren’t ready for a salvo from below.”

Spire Gamma. Level twelve.

He had been there, two weeks prior.

“The cult,” Gaius voxed. “Practical: It’s the cult.”

There was a pause, long enough for Gaius to collect his thoughts. The cult had talked of honor and hope, but clearly they didn’t truly believe in any just ideals. To bombard their own center of government, to endanger the very structure of the Hive World… to kill thousands of innocents, only to continue their misguided faith.

The channels filled with animated chatter, every Astarte who had seen Spire Gamma struggling to add their impressions to the Company’s theoretical base. Gaius remained silent. His hatred for the hypocritical believers was too absolute for that.

“Obliterate them,” he finally said as the noise died down. The cultists had offended him and the empire, and they were about to learn never to leave an Ultramarine alive.

“Captain, missile defenses are finally fully online. We’re safe.”

“It would have been nice to have that earlier,” Gaius noted while passing through the somewhat shaken arches of the upper house. “Still good, Usalaguer.”

“Gather in the war room?” Assault Sergeant Hardonisses proposed.

“Negative. This is a matter for all of Carenn. Meet in the Hall of the Cabinet.”

Gaius continued to issue orders as he walked through the slightly ruined hallways. The Hive’s structure as a whole had- very fortuitously- not collapsed. There were nowhere near enough missiles for that. Still, if the defenses had been even slightly weaker there would’ve been a good chance of the government of Carenn being obliterated.

Ulriader Sezemes rushed up to meet the 21st Captain, and Gaius took off his helmet to hear what the defense advisor was saying.

“What’s happening? Who’s attacking?”

“The cult from half a month ago.” Erikon Gaius clenched his fists, the gauntlets creaking from the effort. “Instead of disbanding as they should have….”

“They always had the stockpile,” Sezemes said. “There is no way to get this many weapons this quickly.”

“Quite likely, which would mean they were planning a takeover even before my visit.”

Sezemes continued to the Hall of the Cabinet trailing behind Gaius. They entered the amphitheater together. Most of the Ultramarine Sergeants were already there, seated on benches in the back; they were not official advisors, and thus their spots were those of guests. The Cabinet itself trickled in more slowly, each advisor and minister carefully taking their seat. Many of the humans were shaking; Gaius classified the symptoms as a reflection of shock.

“I thought you had an agreement, Gaius…” Jakane muttered.

“Clearly they have disobeyed that pact,” vice-governor Jaranuos commented, “which means that we should simply send the Ultramarines to take care of them. Isn’t that simple enough?”

“We’ve done that before,” the Lady Ruler pointed out. “There’s something about the cult…”

“Gaius can do it,” Jaranuos said. “I have doubts about Space Marines in general, but none about Erikon Gaius.”

“I still have a question,” trade advisor Zentonna observed. ”What’s going on?”

All eyes swiveled to the Space Marine Captain.

“The galactic civil war has come to Carenn,” Gaius said. ”Religious fanatics denying the Imperial Truth have attempted to stage a coup on this planet. Having stockpiled weapons, the cult has launched an attack, presumably to install themselves in place of this legitimate government. Two weeks ago, an anomalous increase in disappearances caused me to investigate; the oddness turned out to be people leaving their families to dwell with the cult. At that point, I left the cult alone after agreeing they would disband- a mistake, it now appears. There are likely less savory elements to this religion, as to every religion- an increase in murders went along with the increase in disappearances.”

“Then,” Jaranuos asked, “will you be able to take care of this threat?”

Gaius checked his Sergeants for consent before nodding. “We will burn them at their core.”

“My forces will back you up,” Arbite representative Konscalles promised.

“Sergeant Usalaguer,” Gaius said, “will remain behind once more and work on the defenses. The rest of us will leave within hours.”

“I approve this plan,” the Lady Ruler said, “though not without some reservations. Is there anything else?”

No one proposed anything. Not even Zentonna, usually buzzing with some economic report, made any suggestion. The planet had been invaded from within, and was now in a state of war.

How had he not foreseen this? How had he not understood that some humans would remain allied with the Emperor over Guilliman? Gaius chided himself for not even considering the possibility, even as he had been silent about the Imperial civil war’s details to governor Remasna precisely because of the fear of treachery.

But blaming oneself would not fix the problem. Gaius recognized his error and moved on.

“Alright,” Lady Ruler Remasna said, “meeting adjourned. I desire to personally speak with Captain Gaius afterwards.”

The advisors filed out. The rulers of Carenn exited the chamber, dejected and frightened, but also full of resolve. They were, in their majority, civilians; none of them had truly expected war, even after the Captain’s direct warnings.

Gaius walked up to the governor, and she led him out of the Hall of the Cabinet, tiny compared to the massive Astarte she was leading.

“So?” Gaius asked.

“The civil war,” Remasna said. “You’re fighting against the Emperor, aren’t you?”

Gaius fumbled around in search of a response. It was true, of course, and yet it was also more complicated, and yet that really was its core.

“You are,” Remasna confirmed. Gaius’ uncertainty on how to respond had apparently made that clear enough.

“We- well-”

“I am not condemning you,” the governor said, somewhat shocking Gaius. “But you are a rebel, and you should not be afraid to announce that fact.”

“Why?” Gaius asked. “Why do you accept this so easily?”

The ancient governor grinned. “Why do you not? I trust Guilliman, son. When he came to Carenn we had resisted the Imperial Army for half a decade; the Ultimate Warrior convinced me to turn the planet over peacefully. His judgment has consistently been sound, which is more than I can say for the Emperor. Why do I accept rebellion? Because I know that if Guilliman himself is rebelling, rebelling is the right and proper course of action. You should have that knowledge, Gaius. Loyalty to your Primarch. You are blessed with his blood; do not be so fearful of his spirit.”

“I am not fearful. We know no fear.”

“And yet you know doubt.” Erikon Gaius had no comment on that. “Ignore it. Your Primarch is doing the right thing, Gaius. Embrace it.”

For his part, the Twenty-First Captain of the Ultramarines hoped he already was.


	16. Chapter 16

The Pride of the Emperor hovered over the twinkling surface of Oassar III. Julius Kaesoron gazed out of the viewports through his helmet slits. There were people down there, people unaware of the Imperial Truth, people that had as good as asked for invasion.

Ruen was leading the attack. Ruen was devoted to Slaanesh now, having embraced the god after Fulgrim had officially allowed it. Daimon was heading in the same direction, and Demeter…. Kaesoron feared it was his own speech that had pushed the Second Captain too far. His behavior was growing increasingly erratic as of late, presumably because of the exposure while watching the Warp; the Immaterium had an odd effect on the world. At least Demeter didn’t act like those who had inhaled the Laeran temple’s air.

Of those, Ruen had grown more crazed than Lucius had been. The former 13th Captain had merely entertained himself in sexual ways; Ruen was apparently trying to imitate Lord Commander Fabius, injecting various poisons and other chemicals into his body. His goal was to become immune from environmental influences, and he knew enough of what he was doing to survive, at least thus far. Daimon, meanwhile, practiced with his maul, developing a style of unrestrained assault. And Demeter- well, the Second Captain’s mood swings were fast approaching Fulgrim’s own, in severity if not in grace.

Kaesoron missed Korander, Tarvitz, even Krysander and Vairosean. More and more, it seemed Slaanesh, whose worship the Phoenician had been forced to accept, was getting its claws into the Legion and not planning to let go. There was no one to approve of or critique his actions anymore; everyone was a narcissist, and the web of respect from which Kaesoron drew his power- the Brotherhood of the Phoenix- was as good as gone, no matter how often it met.

But Fulgrim had to have a plan. The Phoenician had assured Kaesoron that this state of being was only a step on the path to perfection, and Kaesoron knew his paranoia was, in the end, just that.

“All we see is filtered through the lens of who we are,” the First Captain quoted.

“And all we are is filtered through the lens of what we see,” Ispequr Davars said, walking up behind his Captain. “Not Karkasky this time?”

“Anarae said this more truly,” the Captain opined.

“Perhaps. Anyhow, I believe you desired to be reminded of a visit at this time?”

Kaesoron nodded. He had an appointment with Serena Opponit in a few minutes, yet another one of the many poets asking for Kaesoron’s experiences and thoughts on her work. There were more and more of these times on the First Captain’s schedule, as even the post-Laeran remembrancers saw their popularity among the Astartes diminish.

“Also,” Davars observed, “I should probably note a rumor going around. They say that you’re going insane.”

“Why?”

“The helmet.”

Kaesoron nodded. “Let them talk. I would rather take the helm off in battle than on this cursed vessel. There will be another Gellar breach yet, or something even worse; I guarantee you.”

“You’re slipping, Brother-Captain.” This time Davars’ voice was- agitated, even. “You’re falling back into the paranoia. You said yourself that the Primarch-”

“The Phoenician will do everything in his power to prevent disaster. But there is still reason for caution, Davars; the Emperor may be a god, but he is not omnipotent.”

Kaesoron waved off Davars’ attempted reply and rushed down towards Opponit’s studio.

The corridors flew past, the taint of the ship a tangible itch, much lighter than the one before the Gellar breach but there nevertheless. Other Captains hadn’t felt it, but Kaesoron was fairly certain it was not a hallucination. It was too reminiscent for that.

He emerged in Opponit’s office on time, of course; Davars had, as always, come slightly early. The remembrancer herself was already there, exhibiting a slightly raised heart rate from the stress.

“Captain Kaesoron,” the remembrancer said.

“Yes?”

“Er-” Opponit looked at his helmet. Kaesoron did not respond, the seconds ticking by. At last, the remembrancer recognized his stubbornness and began the interview. “So, the campaign of Slodi’s moon.”

“It wasn’t much of a campaign,” Kaesoron noted. “But I will tell it.”

To Opponit’s mild nod, he responded with a tale.

The narrative wove on, purely truth- for this was not the time for poetic embellishment- but dramatic nonetheless. Opponit looked surprised and relieved at the correct moments, and expressed surprise at the presentation’s objectivity and merit.

“So did you execute the prisoners in that way simply because of the orders?” Opponit asked.

“In a sense. I took the middle course because it was the only sensible one. Fulgrim is merciful, and would not want the station exterminated; but he gave his decree, and even if I disagreed with it, only a fool would disobey the Phoenician like that.”

“Did you disagree with them?”

“No. Fulgrim is my Primarch.” Another Captain would be growing angry by now, but Kaesoron had read enough of Ignace Karkasky to know questioning was a good thing in a war like the Crusade. Only in moderate amounts, of course, but a good thing nonetheless.

Serena Opponit’s evident fright was therefore unnecessary. “Forgive me, I-”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Opponit nodded. “Then- would you like to listen to my work about Laeran?” Kaesoron signaled assent, and the remembrancer began.

It was a long tale, one sung more than it was spoken; a composer had certainly helped in Opponit’s creation. It told of the Third Legion’s devastation of the Laer and of their corruption at the verge of victory. It spoke of a Laeran ghost, rising from the abyss of history.

“Quite impressive,” was all Kaesoron could say. “Who gave you the story?”

“Sergeant Votaequs of the Fourteenth Company, just after the battle. He told me to forget about it the next time we met, but by then I had begun and just couldn’t stop. A lot of it is artistic interpretation, though.”

“Quite impressive,” Kaesoron repeated. “And there is a lot of truth in it, though perhaps too little faith. But I wouldn’t sing it in public if I were you.”

“It’s the civil war,” Opponit asked, “isn’t it? The war will be waged with words as well as guns, and everyone fears betrayal. Are you sure of even your Company’s loyalty, Captain? Now consider the greatness of the Phoenician, and the greatness that fear must surely take within him.”

“My Company is loyal to me,” Kaesoron said. “They had the poison excised as well.”

“I meant loyalty to the Emperor.”

Kaesoron gave a shrug, though it was invisible below the power armor, and was about to comment further when the rune for a summons lit up on his retinal display. A check gave it as Ruen’s arrival, though Kaesoron had no idea how the battle could be over already.

“I must leave,” he said. “Have you talked to the remembrancers who were at Laeran?”

“Yes, though many of them seem mad.”

“They are the exemplar of what that temple did to us, only slightly more advanced. And half the Legion was in it. Talk to them, examine them; and remember you could have been one of them. Farewell.”

Kaesoron walked out of the remembrancers’ decks and headed towards the hangar, striding the distance in nigh-leaps. He was always hurrying now as, it seemed, the only member of Legion command who actually did anything.

The deck was empty as he entered, but Demeter and Daimon soon followed. Daimon was fully armed, his flail hanging from a swinging hand. Demeter exhibited anticipation, clearly intrigued by Ruen’s early return.

Kaesoron needed to make some free time on his schedule; he functioned best when idle. Perhaps then he would already have an idea for the unexpected arrival.

“Why do we have to greet him anyway?” Daimon complained.

“You do not have to,” Demeter said. “But I, for one, wonder how the first campaign after Fulgrim’s redirection went.”

“True; perhaps we’ll manage to learn something. Or what not to do.” Thus satisfied, Daimon stayed in the hangar, even as Ruen’s gunship crawled into the hull. It rolled across the white and gold surface slowly, friction bringing it to a stop some distance ahead of Kaesoron and Demeter.

It was then that the Phoenician entered. He leapt in from above, probably having jumped off some balcony; his off-white cloak billowed behind the Primarch as he landed next to the Captains.

“Lord Primarch,” Demeter said, and knelt simultaneously with Kaesoron; Daimon followed moments later.

“Rise,” Fulgrim said. “Ruen!”

The Twenty-First Captain remained in his Stormbird.

“Ruen, my son, where are you?” Fulgrim asked as he walked towards the Captain’s vessel.

It took about twenty more seconds for the door to open, allowing Ruen onto the hangar floor. The Twenty-First Captain exited in grand fashion, his battle-plate painted in black blood; he bore a skull on his head as a crown, and each of his gauntlets held a moving human arm. They squirmed and spewed lightning, suggesting they had significant still-functioning mechanical components.

“My lord,” Ruen said, kneeling.

“Welcome back,” the Phoenician commented with a smile.

Demeter walked towards the Primarch, almost grinning. From the back, Kaesoron saw clearly the tattoos the Second Captain had arranged on the back of his scalp; they were many, an intricate design of ancient runes.

“What happened?” Kaesoron asked. “Why are you early, Ruen?”

“I had no need to capture the planet,” the Twenty-First Captain explained. “My goal was enjoyment, and as it happened a few raids and… demonstrations… were sufficient to prove our domination. Oassar III is ours, lord father. Their senate should send you the surrender any time now.”

“It already has,” Fulgrim said, his angry fear replaced by joy. Then he turned to Demeter, Daimon, and Kaesoron. “This is what I was talking about in my call for pleasure and pain in battle. Pleasure to us, pain to them. An unplanned operation, one with the perfect goal of satisfaction yet victory undeniable.”

Kaesoron could not imagine why the Primarch made no attempt to turn down Ruen’s happiness. He could barely comprehend, too, why Demeter was now embracing Ruen, rather than attack him for his bloodthirsty methods. The unplanned attack had been effective, but cruel, and the First Captain doubted the planet would ever regain true loyalty to the Imperium- at most, it would fear it, but there would nevermore be love.

It was a hollow victory, not perfect in the least.

Yet it was on the path the Primarch had set. Was he turning into what Demeter had been, to think the Legion was unerringly decaying?

Kaesoron considered the question in detail later, as he was walking to his training rooms through a hallway covered in symbols of Slaanesh. He thought best while idle, and he had cleared his schedule as planned. It had been necessary, for his sanity.

The religion was spreading through the Pride of the Emperor. And Kaesoron knew, like nothing else, that it was malevolent; if the changes wrought by the Laeran temple hadn’t been proof enough, the changes to Demeter were. Thus, decay was indeed extending its grasp across the Legion.

Not for the first time, Kaesoron momentarily entertained the idea that Fulgrim was in truth part of the problem. Not for the first time, he discarded it. Kaesoron was loyal to his Primarch’s vision.

Yet there was a problem, and Fulgrim wasn’t sharing his solution. Kaesoron’s thoughts once more took a heretical turn, considering the possibility that Fulgrim could be killed. He had heard rumors of Vulkan’s death, after all; Primarchs were not immortal. Then the Legion- his Legion- would fall under Eidolon’s command….

No. The impossible did not need to be considered. The chances that Kaesoron could survive his Primarch were insignificant. Perhaps he was simply upset that no one was reading his poetry? Considering such options, the First Captain picked up a chain-axe and hefted it, tracing the individual lines until he considered his humours balanced enough to begin practice.

In the training room, Julius Kaesoron, Captain of the Lions of Chemos, sang as he worked.

And though he tried hard to deny it, he sang a lament.


	17. Chapter 17

Solomon Demeter hurtled towards the surface of Ulaston III, a cometary tail erupting from the drop-pod’s peak. He was seated, watching fire blaze past the windows, even as the planet’s acceleration sped up the pod yet further.

Then, it ended. With a deafening clash, the drop-pod drove itself into Ulaston’s soil. Cracks ruptured the forest around it, even as Sergeant Paesius Anapene kicked open the hatch.

“Children of the Emperor!” Demeter screamed with a grin, jumping to his feet.

“Death to his foes!” Squad Anapene echoed.

Anapene staggered to the side to allow Demeter passage, and the Captain stepped out. The impact site was surrounded by a forest of kilometer-high trees, mountains of green blocking the view; but by his vox-senses, Demeter could hear the Hive City’s rumble to the north.

“Advance!” he announced. “Targets to the north.”

They ran through the wood, as gleeful as children but infinitely more dangerous. A couple of shots could cripple millennial trees, and so Anapene began to make those shots.

“Stop!” Gaius Caphen screamed, linking up. “What are you doing?”

“Pleasure and pain,” the Sergeant responded.

In despair, Caphen tore off his helmet- Demeter followed suit. The second-in-command shot a pleading look to his Captain. Yet Demeter could not bring himself to care. For a few minutes he stood in thought, but then boredom dictated his decision. “They’re trees,” he eventually said. “They don’t feel pain. This is pointless, Anapene; let’s get to the city already. For Slaanesh and the Emperor!”

Then the Emperor’s Children were in a run once more, dashing for the walls of Hive Ulaston- the only such structure on the planet. Calling it a Hive was somewhat misleading anyway; it was a small assembly of buildings, technically built on each other in the typical Hive manner, but housing only perhaps fifty million inhabitants.

The walls came into view suddenly; as the Astartes ran around a growing tree, the full enormity of Hive Ulaston turned visible. It was a construction of red and blue, pipes and windows, houses and antennae, rising ceaselessly above the Emperor’s Children. It was small by the standards of Hive Cities; on the human scale, it might as well have been infinite.

“Up the center,” Demeter declared.

They went.

They smashed into the wall like a breathing battering ram. Chunks of plascrete showered them, but power armor protected against much. Demeter strode in, still helmetless, still bored. The Astartes headed towards the central shaft, wherein they began a slow ascent into the inhabited levels of the Hive.

It was tiring, even for Astartes, to clamber up the endless angles of the construction. Demeter relaxed, wondering about what they would do when they got to the higher levels. It would be tempting to immediately fan out and search for living men, but the true prize sat at the top….

No. No foreplanning. For now, there was only the metronomic rhythm of the endless stairway and the irregular shots fired by Anapene that dotted the railings with gaping holes.

They jogged through the endless Hive, the tough air that strained the helmets’ filtration system being slowly supplemented by pure, breathable atmosphere. As they rose, more and more of the toxins were only precipitates, only fluids pumping themselves through the intricate walls.

The first signs of life came on the 97th floor, rats that Demeter exterminated. The task force continued up, and on the 185th floor the first apartment complexes radiated from the shaft.

“Continue up,” Demeter declared, a split-second decision. “They’re civilians. Not deserving of our wrath, and frankly boring.”

The planetary militia rained down to meet the Emperor’s Children above the 300th floor. They numbered a few hundred, about the same as the Space Marines; but they were only men. They would be smashed, but at least they wouldn’t go down easily.

Battle, at last! But then again, these were deluded men and women, people that could have and should have heard the Emperor’s and Fulgrim’s call. They could have surrendered like their brothers and sisters on Ulaston II and Ulaston V.

That they didn’t was more a sign of incomprehension than anything else. Demeter wiped the tears from his face as he killed the men. He started a song up, a Terran battle hymn that- paradoxically- mourned the death even as it encouraged it.

This was necessary. Unfortunate, perhaps, but necessary!

Joy and sadness alike pulsed through Demeter’s arteries. The Second Captain swung his power-sword through the rabble. It cleaved their heads from their bodies, their chests from their stomachs, their knees from their torsos; it caused more carnage than Demeter had ever seen from his trusty blade.

The men screamed for surrender in oddly high-pitched voices. Demeter tried to signal his Astartes to accept the surrender and stop the massacre; his command was in normal tone, but the others sounded different.

“Demeter areyoualright mycaptain?” Caphen spurted.

The Second Captain shook his head, and the effect passed. Perhaps it was only an apparition?

“What happened to your voice?” Sergeant Perio Xatraus inquired.

Demeter was about to retort, but recognizing his sword’s unnaturally swift movement, shook his head. “No matter. You should have stopped killing them.”

“With all due respect, Brother-Captain, the command came when they were all dead,” Anapene noted.

“There was an anomaly, then,” Demeter said “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get this battle… or not… let’s just go.” His mind clouded with turmoil once more, Solomon Demeter carefully clambered up the stairs. A mild migraine began, but he was Astarte- pain could be withstood.

Madness, however- no, he was not going insane. He was fighting! He was at war!

“May the Emperor be as safe on Terra as we are here,” Demeter noted.

Caphen nodded agreement. “Three casualties, true, but they had their helmets off in the midst of the attack... not surprising. Speaking of which- Brother-Captain, we’re not on Laeran anymore. It would be wise to protect yourself.”

“Maybe,” Demeter said, “but- three casualties?”

“Aye. Battle-Brother-”

“Dead or wounded?”

“All dead.”

Demeter stood silent as Caphen listed the fallen. “Why were you not there?”

“I always wanted to be at the forefront,” Solomon Demeter said. “I was in the battle- oh, whatever. I’m sorry. I truly am sorry. For everything.”

There was a brief silence as the Second Company of the Emperor’s Children continued to ascend the stairway.

“Their progenoid glands have been collected?”

“Yes, although we have plenty of gene-seed by now. We lack warriors to implant it into.”

“Find them, then.”

Caphen was dumbfounded by this, but after a few minutes he managed to ask what, exactly, that meant.

As if it wasn’t clear. “Rush into the residential hallways. Find the boys that are fit to be candidates for recruitment. Take them.”

“That isn’t-”

Solomon Demeter, Second Captain of the Emperor’s Children, roared as he drove his fist into his second’s face.

“Let’s begin!” he screamed to the Emperor’s Children, even as he recognized his barbarism.

Demeter led one of the small packs, rushing into a hallway on floor 453. He tore a door off its hinges, casting it aside; it smashed ringing into the opposite wall. A chant built up in his head.

Chaos Chaos Chaos Chaos CHAOS-

The Captain rushed into the entryway of the apartment, which also served as the living room. It was a one-storied construction, with only a dining room and two small bedrooms separated by doors from the entryway. Sergeant Araius Makusto swung one of the doors open with a crash.

Inside, a man was desperately gripping a pathetic lasgun, his wife and two sons cowering in the corner below a table.

“Give us the boys,” Demeter said.

The father responded by pulling the trigger. It was a perfectly aimed shot, and though Demeter’s reflexes allowed him to dodge the bolt before it was fired, his right chin still burned with a fraction of the impact. The Second Captain responded by leaning forward and kissing the father’s cheek, before gulping the left half of the man’s face down.

What am I doing?

Doubt rose within the Captain, and he spit out the flesh.

“Don’t kill her!?” he screamed. “Leave the mark of Slaanesh, and take the children. But no more than that.”

The Emperor’s Children followed the order, some more reluctantly than others. My mind is clouded, Demeter observed. This will pass, but I am not currently fit for command.

It is mine nevertheless.

The Astartes exited the room in greater order by far than they entered it. Of course, it would have been impossible for the exit to be more disorderly than the entrance; but the reorganization was still impressive.

The Space Marines continued to comb through the Hive, searching for minors of the appropriate age and physical characteristics. Some of the packs, Demeter knew, would retain their savagery; that was for the best. The citizens needed to be terrified.

Yet at the same time, the places Solomon Demeter had been before coming to his senses terrified him throughout the search. Was that wildness still within him somewhere, just waiting for the chance to come out?

It was only when the raid was over, when the nobility of Ulaston III sent Fulgrim- and Fulgrim sent Demeter- a message of unconditional surrender, that Demeter’s attention was drawn to something on his face, below the eye. Close examination revealed it to be a flagellum, a spontaneous adult mutation- rare, almost unheard-of, but supposedly one of the gifts Slaanesh bestowed upon his faithful.

And for an instant, terror gripped Demeter’s heart, as he recognized the moment when the sign of favor had first appeared- when he had bitten the unknown father’s face off.

Only for an instant, though. In the next instant, those tears and inner conflict had become only a further bastion of Slaanesh within his soul.


	18. Chapter 18

Erikon Gaius glided into the heart of Spire Gamma once more.

The last time he’d gone here, it was on a reconnaissance mission; the last time he’d gone here, he had been sent by the Arbites to solve a criminal problem. He had solved it, diplomatically.

But did diplomacy even have a place in this brave new galaxy? The cult’s actions were such that Gaius doubted even the Imperium would approve of them. Dealing with Terra was, however, almost as impossible as dealing with the cult.

Gaius’ gunship was shot at as it headed towards the spire, even as it sent salvos against the makeshift batteries in the buildings’ windows and on the Hive-streets’ surfaces. Gaius’ vessel rocked, sending into flight all objects not tied down.

“Head toward object 1-Zeta,” the Captain ordered.

The pilot, Tactical Sergeant Caton Loppones, followed his superior’s orders. Banking sharply, buffeted by winds of fire, the Thunderhawk leapt into a gap between two hab-blocks and zoomed into the battery.

“They’ve dug in well,” Battle-Brother Iliam Zaneteon observed.

“Indeed,” Gaius assented. The cultists really had dug in well- better than expected, but then again they’d planned for this.

They were humans going up against Ultramarines, however. In the end, that would probably be all that mattered.

“Jump!” Gaius screamed, even as a fireball expanded in the gunship’s side. “Loppones, drop us and retreat to the smoke layer.”

The Thunderhawk’s hull opened, and Erikon Gaius, Captain of the 21st Company of the Ultramarines, leapt onto the cracked plascrete. Squad Loppones followed him into the block ahead. A structure loomed ahead; it had once been a hotel, if Gaius’ auto-senses were correct. Striding into it, the Captain kicked its door open.

What waited inside defied all his predictions.

Instead of a typical, or perhaps slightly decorated, lobby a yellowish cathedral met the Captain’s gaze. A mustard-colored gas filled the titanic expanse. Incense burners and narrow windows lined the walls. Lines of feathers hung from the ceiling. It was an unnatural, opaque place. Gaius’ stomach turned in looking at it.

Worse than the building itself were its occupants. Pink and blue fish-like flyers zipped rings around the structure. Birds unlike any Gaius had studied upon induction fluttered far above. And ahead, in the yellow distance, something from a fevered dream stood waiting.

“You will die, Erikon Gaius,” it stated.

There was no way to describe the monster, for its body changed with every instant. But Gaius could still tell its general shape, as it kept an overall avian form consistently. It was a massive vulture, or perhaps a titanic raven like that on Corvus Corax’ sigil. It shined blue, in clear contrast to the yellow darkness that dominated the rest of the temple.

It was two-headed. One head was eyeless; the other, Gaius could not properly discern. The figure itself wavered, as if it was a phantom who was to retreat upon daybreak; it was almost transparent, and the opaque smoke was visible through its back.

When its spoke, its tongues moved without its mouths opening.

“Here,” the xeno said. “Soon. I have seen it.”

“We are all mortal, monster,” Gaius stated.

“That you are,” it responded. “That you are.” And then, as Squad Loppones rushed ahead, it faded with a flourish. “My debt is paid, Kartan,” it said as it vanished, though Gaius had to strain to hear.

The yellow air formed a tornado as it swirled into the void the daemon’s- no, not daemon, this was just an odd xeno or mutant- form left. As if incensed by their leader’s disappearance, the lesser creatures above swarmed down into the Ultramarines’ formation.

“Strike back!” Gaius ordered, though it was unnecessary.

Bolters ripped through the aerial assault, with startlingly little effect. A ray-like creature dove for Gaius’ head, even as it burned from a shell’s impact. Drawing his powersword in one fluid motion, the Captain sliced it in half. This time, it fell to the floor uncontrolledly and did not rise.

Another of the pests hurtled at the Captain’s face, but Gaius responded with his Betcher’s Gland, burning its wings off. The being continued its motion, allowing the Ultramarine to knee it into the depths of the hab-block.

Around Gaius, Squad Loppones copied its Captain in massacring the aerial fish. Bolters and chainswords, as well as a plasma cannon, turned the attack into wings and eyes. As the beasts’ flesh was separated from their bodies, it melted into a violet liquid that achingly contrasted with the yellow surroundings before evaporating.

Within minutes, it was all over. Nothing was left; only an error-inducing combination of gases hanging in the air bore witness to the fierce attack.

“Casualties?”

“Battle-Brother Zaneteon is down,” Caton Owaxetes reported.

“I’m still alive,” Zaneteon noted, legs covered in the blood-like liquid. “We’ll never beat them like this, Captain.”

“Indeed,” Gaius observed. “Meet up with the other units at the epicenter. Theoretical: if we take out the leadership, the creatures will lose cohesion.”

No one questioned the theoretical, though everyone was aware it was far from being a definite path to victory. This was going to be a pitched battle, however, and to minimize casualties the Ultramarines would need to take any possible shortcuts they could.

Otherwise, Astartes would die here. The avian’s words stuck fast in the Captain’s head. Did the beast have some form of prophetic psychic talent? Was this to be his last battle?

Had he cleared his doubts only to-

Gaius chuckled at the irony of the situation. Here he was, doubting. He had always known he would die eventually; and this battle, at least, was just. Courage and honor; that was the whole point.

The Ultramarines filed out of the altered building, and Gaius led them at a jog towards the original temple. The smoke- not yellow, here, but rather darkly multicolored- pulled closer around him here. In terms of illumination, it was night, though by Gaius’ chronometer Carenn’s sun should not yet have set.

Gaius led Squad Loppones through chipped and collapsing buildings. In one ring of walls, abandoned from the inside- where had all the people gone, anyway?- a small orb of light exploded the opposite door, wreathed in furious fire. “You are nothing!” it screamed, before being disintegrated by a neat shot from Owaxetes’ bolter.

The Ultramarines’ run faded into a march, rhythmic footsteps shaking the plascrete apart. Gaius twitched as he remembered the collapsing scaffolding from earlier in the day; that had been dangerous, and he dearly hoped that Spire Gamma was sturdier than it looked.

“Break march,” he ordered, but the shaking didn’t stop.

Gaius saw Veteran Sergeant Ionnases from a distance, as a blue smudge in the overwhelming fog. The suit’s autosenses gave his position as less than five hundred meters away, but the power of the fog and the buildings that still dotted the landscape were sufficient to blur the Devastator Squad, even to Astarte vision.

Nevertheless, Gaius pointed his group towards Ionnases, ordering a meet-up through the vox. Every squad’s and group’s news was the same set of odd skirmishes, but the Ultramarines were now contracting in a ring around the epicenter temple.

Then, suddenly, it fell into view.

It was powerful, intimidating, a work clearly meant to impress. It achieved that purpose. It was red and brown, covered in beating wood; there were corpses on the walls, a display of incomprehensible barbarism.

“And those are citizens of Ultramar?” Assault Sergeant Hardonisses voxed.

“They were,” Sergeant Partaxen said with uncharacteristic bitterness.

“Practical: Meet up at my position,” Gaius ordered, “and break into the wall.”

Assent was heard in response, along with a lot of static. The net was breaking up; no surprise, given the oddness of the overall endeavor.

“Theoretical:”, Hardonisses suggested, “perhaps the enemy is assisted by the warp-creatures we were war- kktch- out?”

“Practical: We know of no specific way of fighting more effective against Warp-spawn, except the power of psykers. Which we don’t have access to. Just kill them.”

“How can Warp ent- kktch- the Materium?”

A brief debate followed, interrupted before its time by the vox-net finally collapsing in its entirety. Then there were only footsteps, slowly converging into a hundred and forty Astartes ready to end the madness at its core.

Veteran Sergeant Orsono came up first, his helmet glaring. His Squad was with him, weapons ready for the practical. Then other Squads began to pull up- Marianes, Frazant, Xelarcal. The last to come were Partaxen’s Devastators, covered by Thespates’ Assault Marines. By the time they reached Gaius, those Devastators present were already hammering into the temple’s back wall.

There was the briefest of warnings before they broke through; odd brown lights on the living wood, one Gaius initially took as sap of some sort. But then the wall fell, and the chamber within was revealed.

It was, as Gaius had expected, debased. But the manner in which it was such shocked even him. The large hall held thousands of corpses, whether stabbed, choked, or drowned. Many of them had civilian workclothes on; indeed, they had to be civilians, because there probably weren’t this many Arbites on Carenn.

The mound of bodies was highest towards the center of the square room. Above it, there was a hole in the ceiling large enough to accommodate a Thunderhawk; a multicolored miasma surrounded the pyramid’s summit, leaking upward to create a veil of smoke. Even as the Ultramarines watched, a ring of humans- mutant humans- danced on the mountain of corpses, chanting something in a non-Ultramar language that strained Gaius’ ears.

“Attack them,” Erikon Gaius ordered.

The Astartes aimed their guns-

And then there was an explosion of brilliant light. For a moment, Gaius saw nothing, and then he witnessed a titan stride out of the fog.

It was crimson-skinned, and big- not quite as big as one of the Mechanicum’s war machines, but as big as, say, Roboute Guilliman. Its face was bestial, with a constant grimace; its feet were hooved. From its back grew leathery wings that dripped a liquid Gaius recognized to be blood- specifically, human blood. All in all, it was as a bat, though with a bull’s head and legs. It certainly had a bat’s arms, hairy and small.

The monstrosity swung a black blade, one that seemingly appeared out of nothingness, and pointed at the Ultramarines.

It roared.

The building shook, dropping pieces of masonry onto helmets and flesh. Two of the ritual’s circle were hit by one large piece, immediately falling down dead. Battle-Brother Anstallo of Squad Partaxen, too, was knocked into pulp by a direct impact from a massive piece of plascrete. Chunks of at least that size pattered the beast, but it continued moving forward.

The Ultramarines opened fire. It roared again, this time in pain; but that did not stop it- moving unnaturally fast- from jumping into the air, only to land onto Squad Thespates. The Assault Marines had tried to charge; but every one of them was either instantly flattened by the enemy’s bulk or cut to pieces by its sword. Pieces of armor littered the floor; Sergeant Thespates raised his blade in an attempt to parry, but pure metal was instantly pierced by black warp-stuff, and the abomination killed the Ultramarine.

“I am Erkaggek!” it screamed. “And I will end you all!”

Had the avian been right, then? The Ultramarines were concentrating fire, and the xeno was weakening; but nothing seemed to be capable of destroying it. Another Squad- Frasar this time- fell under the monster’s blade.

Then, Gaius recognized, with an emotion a human might have called fear, that the ritual was continuing, that a new form was taking shape in the emerging fog.

“Concentrate fire on the humans!” Gaius screamed. “Deal with the Erkaggek later!”

The Ultramarines did so. Bolter fire ripped apart the summoners’ flesh- was this how you made deals with Warp entities?- and, slowly, to Gaius’ great relief, the form in the heart of the corpse mound faded.

But the Erkaggek attacked again, and this time Orsono felt its wrath. The monstrosity was weak now, slow, bleeding from a thousand wounds; but the Ultramarines, too, had been bloodied. The Erkaggek knew its end was near, and in its final agony, it decided not to go down quietly; in its dusk, as the miasma began to fade, the Erkaggek leapt at Squad Loppones.

This, Gaius knew, was what the avian had predicted. This was the end. The Erkaggek’s blade swept in an arc, black edge homing in on the Astarte’s throat…

And then falling to the ground, as its owner’s head, far above Gaius, exploded in light.

There was a fireball. The wreckage of what Gaius recognized as a Thunderhawk gunship toppled to the ruined floor, harmlessly distant from the startled Astartes.

As the flames blossomed, a Space Marine, slightly charred, flopped onto the ground.

“Sergeant?” Owaxetes wondered, even as chunks of the Erkaggek’s disintegrated head showered the ground below it with blood. Bathed in that blood, Sergeant Caton Loppones clambered to his feet.

“Captain Gaius,” Loppones noted, “I must inform you I followed your orders to the letter. I did stay in the smoke.”

And as Loppones emerged from under the falling debris, the fog began to lift. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, bringing light into the former temple. The creatures still within the hall screamed, sucked into nothingness along with the fog surrounding them.

Seconds after the Erkaggek’s head was gone, the effect was over. The spire fell silent. Exiting the site of massacre, Erikon Gaius watched the streets, now empty of both monsters and men.

“We won?” Hardonisses asked via vox.

“No,” Gaius said, his voice hard. “We lost. In allowing this battle to take place at all, we lost.”


	19. Chapter 19

Marius Vairosean returned to the Pride of the Emperor in a good mood. That was rare for him, even before Fulgrim’s betrayal; but his campaign had gone well, and together with the 32nd Company of Coralius Astarune- another Captain resistant to the Legion’s degeneration- Vairosean had conquered over twenty worlds at a breakneck pace. There had been planning, of course; Astarune didn’t mind it, and though it combined with the campaign’s speed to leave no time for anything besides battle and strategy, Vairosean did well in such extremes.

They were what Astartes had been made for- war, and preparation for war. Now Fulgrim was trying to cut out the latter, destroying the Emperor’s Crusade along the way.

Marius Vairosean returned to the Pride of the Emperor in a good mood. That faded as soon as he saw the Marine awaiting him on the deck.

“Demeter?” The Second Captain did not look like himself. “What’s happened to you?”

“A god happened to me!” Demeter exclaimed, and Vairosean knew his friend was lost. “Come, let me explain. Vairosean? Come on!”

Grim-faced, Marius Vairosean stomped out of his shuttle towards the Triumphal Way.

He remembered the necklace still sitting in his ship, the deception. It was engraved with the symbolism of Slaanesh- a god’s sigil. Or a demon’s sigil, for all he knew; Slaanesh did not seem to be on the Crusade’s side. Vairosean had often held it in his hands, and odd thoughts had come to him. But the Third Captain had always been bored by them, after he summoned the resolve to put the necklace into its container.

Demeter, it seemed, had lacked that resolve, that willpower. And the grinning face of Vairosean’s friend was so completely changed…

Almost like Dasara. Maybe exactly like Dasara. Everyone was a traitor; no one could be trusted, not even his own thoughts if they were influenced by the… entity. By Slaanesh.

“Why so sullen, Marius?” Demeter asked.

The Third Captain shrugged it off wordlessly. Demeter continued babbling, but Vairosean paid him no heed. His gaze locked squarely onto the road ahead, cold certainty filling him.

Demeter had received the implants from Bile. It had taken them a long time, longer than for anyone else. But in the end, even Solomon Demeter couldn’t resist chemistry.

Heavy footfalls rang along the deck. Vairosean saw faces to his front, unhelmeted Emperor’s Children. Lord Commander Vespasian was there, as well as a couple of other Captains. Vairosean thought of ignoring them, and there was a strong part of him that desired to do that; but the Third Captain needed to keep up appearances.

“Vairosean!”

“Jaenispius!” Julius Jaenispius was the new Captain of the Thirteenth Company, having been appointed after Lucius’ dishonor; from all reports, he had quickly surpassed his predecessor in disgustingness. “How has it been?”

“Wondrous. Truly delightful. We enlightened three worlds to the word of Slaanesh.”

“Only three?”

Jaenispius shrugged. “We were having fun.” What exactly the fun consisted of was left to Vairosean’s imagination, but the Third Captain had no doubt that his dark thoughts were far tamer than what had in fact happened.

“Vairosean,” Vespasian announced when the conversation had died down, “the Brotherhood of the Phoenix will be meeting in minutes. Yours was the last shuttle to arrive; the Legion is gathered once more. We head now to Ultramar. Oh, and- Captain Demeter has initiated a new program for recruiting. We’ll discuss it at the meeting, but I thought I should warn you.”

Marius Vairosean nodded, and the set of Captains strode into the Triumphal Way. Vairosean noted Vespasian’s changed visage along the way; the Lord Commander had received an additional ocular implant since the Third Captain had seen him last, an addition whose scars were still not fully healed.

The Triumphal Way itself, too, had changed. The guard was completely gone now; no tainted Legionnaire desired duty. Bile rose in the Third Captain’s stomach, but he suppressed it.

Skulls, mutilated skulls, now coated the walls. An odd yellow slime oozed through the orifices within those skulls. It dripped onto the floor, where it instantly solidified; with some shock, Vairosean recognized the liquid as being molten gold.

“How was your campaign?” Demeter asked, pulling alongside his former friend once more. “I assume you followed our Primarch’s edict?”

Vairosean chose his response carefully. “Of course,” he said, “despite initial misgivings. But I have made peace with it now.”

“That’s very nice to hear. I mean, Fulgrim was right, of course.”

For a moment, paralysis gripped Vairosean’s legs: what if Demeter, converted, had informed Fulgrim that Vairosean knew of the treachery? But there was nothing to be done about that, so he continued to walk through a steadily darkening corridor of dripping gold.

The light from above was effectively gone by the time the Captains and Vespasian reached the entrance to the Heliopolis; there was only the reddish glow of the yellowish gold. Thus, the Heliopolis’ light was at first blinding. Vespasian opened the gates without announcing the entrers’ names to the Phoenix Guard; Vairosean supposed there was no more Phoenix Guard, or at least that it was severely reduced to just the bodyguards of the Phoenician.

The light of the Heliopolis was blinding. But it was wrong. The lamps were distorted somehow; there was no shadow, and every point within the room was equally lit. It was a perfection that Vairosean had dreamed of, yet it was also unnatural.

Outside, total darkness remained, lit only by the dripping gold. It formed intricate structures near the Heliopolis, but the floodlights within should have made its faint glow invisible; yet the lava-like fluid retained its luminescence. Indeed, no light escaped the confines of the circular Heliopolis; while Vairiosean stood before the entrance, he was darkened.

He stepped into the light. The Heliopolis was revealed before Marius Vairosean as the Captain strode to his seat in the second circle. Rows filed by, and Captains within them, from Abranxe to Zipritie. Circles lay within circles, and even as Vairosean sat down, Fulgrim Phoenician entered the brotherhood’s sanctum.

The lights immediately flickered, then moved, converging on the Primarch. Usually this effect seemed to happen due to Fulgrim’s luminescence; but when Vairosean looked up, he saw the floodlights had in fact altered their position.

“My children!” Fulgrim announced. “I bid you welcome. Only a few brief moments remain until we are due to depart for the realm of Ultramar. The treachery of my brother Guilliman is unimaginable, yet it is truth. Let me repeat, then: Roboute Guilliman has turned from the light of the Emperor.”

Fulgrim cast a long glance around the room, as if sweeping it for bugs. It was not a harsh glare, however; the Primarch’s gaze was simultaneously paternal, and Vairosean had to struggle not to give into the hypnotism. This was, he knew, the real enemy. Guilliman would fall sooner or later, as long as the Imperium was strong.

Going against his Primarch- never what Vairosean had planned, but he would do what he had to.

“We fly to the jaws of Ultramar, to its western frontiers. The Thirteenth Legion thinks is can stop us with high walls and big cannons. They are wrong!”

Was the Primarch suicidal? Without foreplanning, yes, a Legion’s strength could capture a few planets. But Ultramar… Ultramar was intimidating. Ultramar needed a plan.

Fabius’ corruptees could fight well. For the soldiers, that was enough. But an officer needed to be capable of thinking as well, and that seemed absent in the tainted.

“We will attack. We will win. For are we not the Children of the Emperor? Yes, we will burn their pitiful remnants away! For Slaanesh!”

Of course. Fulgrim was purely Slaaneshi now, a tool of the daemon-god. Pathetic, really.

Yet the Legion cheered, for reasons incomprehensible to Marius Vairosean. Many of them would follow Slaanesh anywhere, of course. The Third Captain preferred to stay alive, and useful to the Emperor.

“Can the galaxy contain our glory?” Eidolon asked.

“It can yet,” Demeter answered, “for our galaxy is more than you believe.”

“What,” Astarune- having arrived to the Heliopolis shortly before Vairsoean himself- asked, “has happened to the Triumphal Way?”

“Eidolon redecorated it,” Vairosean put in, “remember?”

“But what’s with the molten gold? How is that even physically possible?”

“The might of the Warp makes all things possible,” Ruen declared.

That made no sense, and at the same time it was a pretty clear-cut explanation. Perhaps all of this had something to do with ex-Captain Lucius’ dark ritual before Slodi? If it was then that Fulgrim had first communed with Slaanesh… but no, Fabius’ modifications had started long ago. It was Laeran, all Laeran.

There was a bit more discussion after that, questions and answers about the Captains’ campaigns. Vairosean and Astarune had achieved the highest efficiency, but that led to little praise nowadays.

Eventually, however, the discourse quieted down, and Fulgrim found himself the center of attention once more. Many of Vairosean’s fellow captains seemed as addicts, looking to Fulgrim to provide their next dose. Their gazes were turned up, and on their faces desperate admiration was carved.

They needed Fulgrim. And Fulgrim was ready for that.

“My children!” he pronounced. “I have two more announcements today. The first is that news has recently reached us that my traitorous brother, Jaghatai Khan, will never in life come to the side of the Emperor once more. For his treachery, he has been rewarded with a death in battle. There are only seventeen Primarchs now.”

A Primarch dead.

A Primarch dead. It was incomprehensible. Vairosean was not, of course, about to argue that the Khan hadn’t deserved it, but still….

“I mourned for him,” Fulgrim said, “despite his turning. I never wanted this. I never wanted all this. Let my pain be your pain, and let your pain feed Slaanesh.”

Vairosean found it difficult to summon sympathy for the traitor. There was only room in his heart for awe. A Primarch dead….

“The battle happened a while ago, but the news has been kept from us by the whims of the Warp. In any case, my second announcement is a happier one.”

Happy. Ha.

“Solomon Demeter, Second Captain, has at last found a solution to our recruiting difficulties. From this day forth, the Emperor’s Children will recruit from enemy populations. From this day forth, we shall capture our young enemies and mold those that survive into new Initiates for our glorious Legion!”

Applause erupted, a furious rattle, exuded by ceramite smashing against ceramite. There was cheering, too, spreading through the Heliopolis like a virus. Marius Vairosean sat in place, rigid, trying to piece together the Legion’s pieces in his mind and failing.

Did Fulgrm not see? No, he did, of course. The Phoenician was still a Primarch, despite the madness. But Fulgrim most certainly had a plan to deal with the rebellious Initiates, the ones unbound by Chemos’ regulations and traditions, the ones that would still be nurturing a hatred of their superiors from beneath their psycho-conditioning. There were so many reasons this would not work!

Fulgrim was sending the Third Legion to hell.

‘’Thank you!” Fulgrim screamed over the cheering. “Thank you, and farewell!”

The Phoenician turned, his cloak swooping around him, and in the last moment before his Primarch’s face was turned Vairosean imagined he saw a tear on his father’s face- imagined, because Fulgrim was certainly beyond weeping now. Then Fulgrim was ascending the stairs to his sanctum, and the Brotherhood of the Phoenix began flowing out. Kaesoron came up to the Third Captain, his face tired.

“For Slaanesh,” Vairosean mumbled. “Not “For the Emperor”.”

“Fulgrim is only embracing the dark god to please the Legion,” Kaesoron said, also under his breath. “He is still sane.”

Kaesoron, even with his implants, seemed to doubt it.

And then Marius Vairosean walked out of the Heliopolis, through the gilded Triumphal Way, heading unerringly toward the Triple Hall. His pace was heavy, his humour melancholic with a hint of choler as he went to give proof of his fake loyalty.

“For the Emperor,” he said, mostly to himself.

Someone had to say it.


	20. Chapter 20

Julius Kaesoron, First Captain of the Emperor’s Children- he was still that, despite everything- waited behind the curtain.

He was waiting for his Prmarch to receive him, even as the Pride of the Emperor sailed through the madness of the Warp. He was waiting for his Primarch to reassure him, because Fulgrim’s speech at the Brotherhood’s latest gathering caused great anxiety in his uncertain hearts.

For now, however, the Phoenician was relaxing, and Kaesoron did not dare disturb him. Thus he merely stood, hidden, repeating to himself that Fulgrim was only pretending to embrace Slaanesh to appease the Legion and that he was only waiting until Fulgrim got up, that he was not spying on his father.

But he had to be sure. Even if he had been spying, in this age none in the Legion would dare blame him for that. He repeated to himself, however, that he wasn’t, that he would never do that to his Primarch.

Then there were footsteps on the other side of the room, and Marius Vairosean barged in. Kaesoron cringed at his manner of walk, entirely undeferential. The Third Captain seemingly had no reverence for the Phoenician.

Vairosean had no respect for Fulgrim’s rest, either, as he immediately began his presentation.

“Father,” the Third Captain said.

The sitting Fulgrim turned his face. “Yes, Marius?”

“I…” Marius seemed lost for words. “I found this… jewelry… in the ruins of Utkicia VI. It is an icon of the god Slaanesh, is it not?”

Fulgrim looked at the icon. “Yes,” he announced as he turned it over. “It is, Marius.”

“I wish to make a gift of it,” Vairosean said. “To you.”

The Third Captain’s speech was entirely unembellished, though it was at least practiced. Fulgrim’s responses, meanwhile, were distracted. “Thank you,” the Primarch said. “It warms my heart that you have converted.”

“It was a long journey,” Marius said with a chuckle. “And it is a long journey, actually, one that I am taking my first steps on.”

“Only Kaesoron is left, now, of the senior leadership,” Fulgrim said. “I do not know how to tell him, Vairosean. He fears the Primordial Truth. He still refuses to accept Slaanesh. He will eventually, I know, but….”

Kaesoron’s faith was as a bright floodlight, illuminating all in the vicinity, pale, penetrating. Yet it was brittle as a floodlight, too.

The floodlight broke.

All was dark.

As silently as he could, Julius Kaesoron retreated.

Fulgrim was a traitor. No, not a traitor- loyal, always loyal to the Emperor. But Fulgrim was loyal to Slaanesh, too. This decay, this madness in the Legion- this was not a regrettable and temporary side effect of Fulgrim’s and the Emperor’s grand plans. This was the goal.

This was what the Warmaster had rebelled against.

Walking alone through the darkened, oozing corridors of the Pride of the Emperor, Julius Kaesoron remembered the campaign of Slodi’s moon. Had Fulgrim truly meant for him to massacre only the leadership? Had it truly been good, or even acceptable, to do even that? He was a First Captain- he was leader enough to make his own decisions. Why? How?

“Perfection cries in dismay among the hordes trod underfoot.” Ignace Karkasky’s second Perfection’s Cry was not as well-regarded as his first. It seemed to oppose the Crusade, for one. But now, Julius Kaesoron recognized it for the work of genius it was.

Ignace Karkasky had recognized, before anyone else, the decay of the Imperium. Ignace Karkasky had seen, before anyone else, the inevitable result of eternal war.

Julius Kaesoron, Captain of the Lions of Chemos, blindly stumbled through the hallways of the Pride of the Emperor, cursing his mistakes. He had known much earlier, had he not? He had simply been unwilling to accept the truth.

Kaesoron clenched his fists. Focus. The world had ended, but he was still alive, and still able to act.

He knew Horus was right, now. And the rebellion, as all rebellions, would accept defectors, at least at an early stage. His Company would mostly follow him, especially if he explained his decision.

There had to be others. Not Vairosean, of course; the Third Captain was Slaaneshi now, and that insidious path always led to damnation. For a moment Kaesoron’s gaze clouded as he considered the implications of that word. If he was returning to Horus, should he not abandon his faith entirely in favor of the old Imperial Truth?

But that truth was dead, murdered in the trail of the Emperor’s ascension.

Korander would follow Kaesoron. So would Astarune. Krysander and Tarvitz were less guaranteed, but they could be made to understand. Finally, Kaesoron mentally noted Onurry of the 40th. Six Companies, out of the entire Legion.

They would suffice. They had to suffice.

“We are still Space Marines,” Kaesoron said. “And we still know no fear. No matter what.”

He walked more purposefully now, heading towards his apartment. Shining with determination, Julius Kaesoron walked up from the engineering decks, his invisible visage carved into a grimace as he considered the repugnance of his act. He was betraying his father.

But his father had betrayed humanity. That changed everything.

Kaesoron crossed the gilded Triumphal Way and ascended several flights of stairs, traced a path around his Company’s hall, shot up through an illuminator deck- the windows themselves were covered up again, ever since several imitators of Demeter lost their minds completely- and marched into his office at last. He prepared the scrivener for his announcement, meditating on what he would say.

He would not reveal his decision, not at first. But eventually he would cause madness to ensue by reminding of the madness that was already widespread.

Kaesoron tried to write his speech, but that went badly; so he wrote poetry instead. He tried to describe what the Legion was turning into. It was a grim, mad world that he sketched, a universe without justice or mercy, and most importantly a universe without melancholy.

“True sadness is not of agony; true joy is not of ecstasy.”

“Indeed,” Ispequr Davars said, coming up to his Captain.

“I thought I had cleared all appointments today?” He had, in retrospect, probably done it to leave more time for following his father.

“You have; I was just… wondering. How is your paranoia?”

“I’m not paranoid! I mean- you know the daemons are coming, Davars. You’ve seen the state of the Legion.”

“Do you have a plan to deal with it, Brother-Captain?” Davars asked, and if Astartes felt no fear, his voice at least held a year’s worth of worry.

“I do,” Kaesoron said.

It was the truth. He knew already, for instance, that he would carry out the betrayal while in Ultramar space. Fleeing the Pride of the Emperor within the Warp was sheer madness, and the best time to strike would be when Fulgrim was distracted.

He knew, too, the name of a staunch ally, one that was not among ranks of the Brotherhood of the Phoenix.

“I believe you,” Davars said. “Your paranoia… it may be useful yet, if you do not allow it to dominate you. Become the Astarte you were before Laeran, at least in everything but the fear of daemons. Warp-spawn, I mean.”

“No, daemons. That is their true name. Not angyls, not xenos. And Laeran… I cannot become who I was, Davars. I have changed. Things that once seemed impossible….”

“Like Horus’ treachery.”

“We were brothers, Davars. We were all brothers, no matter of what Legion. That is unimaginable now. Half the Legions have sold their souls.”

Ispequr Davars nodded and hurried out. There was a scowl on the lieutenant’s face; clearly Davars had some Horusian sympathies. But Kaesoron had been speaking the truth- half the Legions had betrayed mankind.

His half.

Kaesoron began writing.

“Order Omega,” he noted for the First, Ninth, Tenth, 32nd, 37th and 40th Companies of the Emperor’s Children.

“We live in strange times. Around us, the Great Crusade has become a civil war of unprecedented proportions. We live in mad times. Brother fights brother, and the truth is often hidden.

There comes now a time when I need an army separate from the Legion. So swear, to yourself, on your trust in me. Swear not to follow, unless you choose to; but swear to listen, and swear to consider.

I am issuing an order now, a declaration of my intent in this endeavor. It will seem insane at first, but think on whether the world we have on our ships is tolerable as it is. If you want to turn back before it’s too late, I will need you to follow the order, no matter what. No matter what!

I do not demand blind obedience. But I have seen the key to our salvation from the jaws of Slaanesh and the Legion’s decay. You may think that I am too low to claim authority over you, from no source besides trust. Yet I need only to know that I am listened to.

Report this to Fulgrim if you desire; some would call this treason. But we live in strange times; and it is long past time for me to speak of the future. This is Julius Kaesoron. This is Order Omega….”


	21. Chapter 21

Marius Gage, First Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, sat in the throne room of the Macragge’s Honour, surrounded by stars.

“Well met,” Captain Lorchas stated. “What is the practical now, Regent?”

“I do not know,” Gage replied. It was the truth, though not a grim one.

The Outer Sphere and New Draconic Federation had both been annexed into the Realm of Ultramar peacefully, as was the Karessthan Empire. The Conitian Empire and the Eternity Conclave had been conquered by the Tetrarchs. The first incursions of the Imperium into Ultramar had been extinguished. The Realm now consisted of over seven hundred planets.

“I suppose I will return to Macragge,” Gage said. “You… I suppose we will need more Companies on patrol now. The Emperor knows that Ultramar is strong.”

“Further expansion?”

“Negative: we have no need to overly stretch ourselves.”

Lorchas nodded. “You know, you don’t sound like the Regent of Ultramar.”

“Well, I am merely warming the seat for the Primarch.”

“The Primarch might never return.”

“And Ultramar may fall before he does. Do not congratulate me without need, Captain.”

Lorchas accepted the semi-rebuke. “Permission to leave?”

“Of course,” Gage said. “You may desire to reorganize your Company in the meantime. The Ninth was divided, and I fear it may not be ready to fight as one immediately.”

Lorchas left, and Gage was left alone, wondering how everything had changed so suddenly. It mattered little now. Getting up was not easy- he recognized he was, despite everything, still too proud of having that throne- and Marius Gage followed it with a visit to the observation deck.

The hallways passed quickly, and soon Gage was again surrounded by his warriors as he coldly scanned the heavens. There was nothing there, nothing but the white light of burning hydrogen and the black void of interstellar aerodust.

A violet line cut into the celestial sphere. Gage’s eyes were immediately bound to the rift, glaring into its depths. There seemed to be something swimming below the surface, something- no.

No!

A massive violet prow erupted out of the Warp rift, emerging into realspace at the jump point. An eagle, a fiery eagle, was mounted on it. The stars behind were blocked out.

“The Emperor’s Children,” Ximeoden noted.

“Engage cloaking!” Gage screamed into the vox-net. “Begin evasive maneuvers. I know this vessel.”

It was not a mere frigate, or even Battle-Barge, that now emerged from the dark depths of the Immaterium. It was the Pride of the Emperor.

It was Fulgrim’s flagship. And unlike the Macragge’s Honour, it would be accompanied by a full fleet, more than a Company of Astartes. Indeed, as the generators turned on, the Macragge’s Honour dove out from behind a large asteroid, revealing the III Legion’s full fleet in lilac daggers. Eighty thousand Space Marines would soon descend on the peaceful Ultramarian worlds of the Serpentile system.

Gage and his bodyguards ran for the bridge.

“We cannot defeat them,” Lorchas observed, meeting the First Chapter Master halfway to the pinnacle. “Serpentile is undefended.”

“I know.”

“We need to abandon Serpentile.”

“Abandon two worlds of Ultramar without a fight? To these bastards?”

“Better than to fight and die. We must escape, Chapter Master… Regent. You know that.”

Escape. It was a dark word, a filthy word when applied to this war. Yet it was necessary, Gage knew. There was no way they would survive this conflict if it broke out. Perhaps if it had been only the Pride….

“Monitor their vox-transmissions,” Gage said as he emerged onto the bridge. “Find out where they will go next. We will make our stand yet, on a better-fortified world. Head for the jump point.”

And, with the decision made, the flagship of the Ultramarines hurtled into a storm of violet.

The Macragge’s Honour flew along a geodesic, aimed at the enemy’s heart. Gage knew the cloak would give way eventually; the Emperor’s Children knew they were here, and soon enough the monsters would begin searching for them. For now, it was most efficient simply to fly towards the jump; the time for evasive maneuvers would yet come.

The Third Legion’s fleet suddenly exploded, expanding like a flower to comb through a maximal region of space. Some tendrils turned towards the Agri-world of Serpentile VI, but most continued on a straight course.

“We will need to muster Ultramar,” Gage noted. “An entire traitor Legion is… well.”

Not much needed to be said.

The Macragge’s Honour continued to fly, veering slightly from its course towards the far side of Fulgrim’s formation. A brief contact would only be beneficial; Gage wanted to take apart a few Imperial ships, as advance vengeance for the sack of Serpentile. Nevertheless, as the enemy drew closer, the Ultramarine ship approached a course of avoidance.

Despite this, the bridge lights began to flicker. “They’re about to notice us,” Ximeoden commented.

“So?” Taplon responded. “We’re too far along for them to stop us. We’ll make it.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ninth Company Sergeant Sazaot recommended.

What’s taking them so long?

Then, the flanks of one of the III Legion’s cruisers lit up, and the first volley headed towards the Macragge’s Honour.

“All power to shields!”

“Evasive maneuvers!”

“Just a bit more…”

The first volley went wide, flying into the Honour’s location from a moment ago. The second one, however, exploded just as that became clear to Gage; and if the ship dodged that one, then the other ships- already warming up- would still put the Ninth Company of the Ultramarines’ survival at risk.

“Lord Regent! Lord Regent!” A young Astropath ran up, holding a slip of paper. “We’ve cracked the enemy vox codes. The Emperor’s Children are heading for Carenn next.”

“Then tell the Navigators to prepare for an emergency jump to the Carenn system. And get a message sent to- Erikon Gaius, is it? Tell him to prepare for a Legion assaulting his fortifications.”

Carenn. That was good- Gaius had been fortifying the Hive World for weeks, and the system already boasted significant defenses before then. On Carenn, the Ultramarines could hold out.

Even, perhaps, two Companies against a Legion.

The Macragge’s Honour shook, tossing Gaius from his seat; a series of explosions were clearly heard outside the flagship. They were the ineffective struggles of the missiles against the Primarch-sized shields of the Honour.

The III Legion’s fighters- ridiculously decorated; who had the time to plaster skulls on the outside of the ships?- swarmed in.

“Approaching the jump point,” Ximeoden hopefully stated, just as the first of the fighters rammed into the flagship.

The flagship shook severely; lights flickered across the bridge, red tides sweeping across within milliseconds. The shields were about to fail, and when the second fighter collided- courtesy of the Honour dodging a third- they collapsed.

The jump point was twinkling, promising salvation in the distance. Gage weighed attempting an emergency transit right now, but decided against it. The Macragge’s Honour could hold; it was far more risky to transfer into the Warp at an unmarked point in the middle of a firefight. They could have jumped before encountering the Emperor’s Children, of course, but any such attempt was fraught with danger.

Not that evading this ammunition was any less dangerous. The Thirteenth Legion’s flagship was straining at her welds, dodging in ways she had never been meant to, firing back into the swarm; outside, the firestorm raged. Every ship in Gage’s escort had been eliminated now, or else had jumped immediately. Running the gauntlet was only plausible for a big ship here.

In the distance, behind the rivers of fury, Serpentile VI wept; Fulgrim’s killers were surrounding it. Marius Gage, Regent of Ultramar, did not think any more on the topic. Now was not the time.

The Macragge’s Honour flew on, even as explosions bloomed on its lower decks. The flagship shook, tossing Gage from his seat once more. Sirens blared. All was mayhem.

But this was an Ultramarine ship, even now. That meant something, even in a time when nothing else really mattered. Gage committed the engineering to emergency injections. Just a bit more…

“No boarding torpedoes yet, Regent,” Lorchas reported.

“Send my congratulations to the pilots.”

“No- no boarding torpedoes have been fired.”

“Theoretical: the Emperor’s Children are aware we have the advantage in troops. This is a big ship, and we could defeat an incursion. They don’t want to give their lives.”

“Fighters have gone in.”

“Fighters carry fewer Astartes. Practical: if they aren’t sending in torpedoes, impacts on the non-essential portions of the ship are acceptable.”

There was no time to dodge, not anymore. The damaged ship was sluggish. But still the Macragge’s Honour flew, more on inertia than on any propellant. The engines were damaged, but still strained forwards. And, as the last of the explosions erupted on the ship’s stern, chunks of plasteel floating into the endless void, a sharp turn revealed a massive, thick line in the darkness of space.

“The jump point.”

“Engage Warp drives!”

“Prepare Gellar fields!”

The last of the fragments floated off; but fortunately, the Gellar field generators had remained effectively undamaged. And then the front of the Macragge’s Honour peeled back reality, and with a shudder, the Ultramarine flagship began to sail into the twilight realm of the Warp.

A final explosion, and then all was quiet. But they were far from safe.

The windows on the bridge swerved shut, even as the sensors began reporting nonsensical data. Outside, Gage caught glimpses of things moving; the Warp was disturbed now, roiling in spiraling darkness.

“Are the Gellar field generators even intact?”

“Yes, of course!”

“How’s the stability?”

“Why are the engines oscillating?”

“Deck 3C has gone red!”

“Was Navigator Osteone even ready?”

“Are they pursuing? They could turn around and do that.”

The bridge was lit with chatter as reports from the vast vessel poured onto the bridge, inundating Marius Gage in directionless data. Only one question mattered; the Macragge’s Honour was damaged, but she would hold, if she was left alone.

“Are they pursuing?” Taplon asked.

Gage shrugged. “Contact Osteone and find out. I want to know the answer as well.” A small pursuit fleet could be defeated, but if Fulgrim turned a large part of his forces away from Serpentile, the Macragge’s Honour was doomed.

Gage would face the death honorably, of course. And they would at least split the III Legion’s forces. But in the end, he preferred to live. Live to fight again.

He did, however, contemplate the possibility of a Gellar field failure. That would be horrible, Warp spawn crawling through the corridors of the ship, Space Marines being torn apart by violations of physics, and eventually flesh itself giving way before the annihilating tide. Making a controlled entry into the Warp had decreased that risk, but not eliminated it entirely.

“Battle report,” Lorchas stated. “Have a look at it, Regent- we lost as many ships as we killed.”

Gage took the data-slate into his hands, staring into the letters. The engagement had not been a victory by any means, but if the Macragge’s Honour at least limped away, it would not be a disaster.

It was bloody, but this was to be expected when fighting Astartes. Really, defeating the Iron Hands so easily had been a stroke of luck.

Taplon was off, and Ximeoden was eerily silent. The rest of Gage’s guard was dead from some of the worst fighting the veteran had ever seen. The reason for those battles’ savagery was blatantly clear: Astartes against Astartes, the impossibility made reality. If it came down to an attrition war, at least, the Ultramarines had a lot of warriors. And with the Mechanicum firmly on the rebels’ side, they could produce new Space Marines faster as well.

But such a war, a long war, spanning decades or even centuries, would devastate the galaxy. It would go against everything Marius Gage had ever hoped for.

“Regent?” Taplon had come back. “We are not being followed. None of the Third Legion’s ships have jumped into the Warp.”

Gage nodded, satisfied. “Then keep the course for Carenn. For Ultramar, brothers. We will save it yet.”


	22. Chapter 22

Solomon Demeter, Captain of the Emperor’s Children Second Company, ran through a city’s alleys. He did not know the city’s name; it didn’t matter.

Gaius Caphen was there with him, as were Anapene, Pirvan, and the others. Demeter absentmindedly noted that they were kicking up clouds of dust behind them. Serpentile VII was, for whatever reason, a dusty world.

Ahead, the Governor’s Palace loomed. It was hardly a palace- barely decorated at all. Boring, grey walls contrasted with boring, green columns. Still, this was where the Governor of Serpentile VII made his residence.

“Captain?” Caphen asked. “Will you always be fighting without a helmet now?”

A brief glance back was enough to answer the second’s question in the affirmative.

The Second Company leadership ran, and then Julius Jaenispius was there. The Thirteenth Company Captain was accompanied by a squad of Dream Guard, oddly effeminate Astartes that- well, even though Demeter was devoted to Slaanesh, he preferred not to guess at it.

Sometimes even true gods led men down the wrong path.

“The governor is about to surrender!” Jaenispius screamed. “Resistance remains, but that’s not the point!”

“Yes!” Demeter yelled, pumping his fist; the Second Company erupted in a similar cheer.

Victory. Victory over a world of Ultramar; the rebellious Guilliman would be brought to heel yet. Demeter was elated, and his Company likewise; triumph was coming.

And then Jaenispius’ head exploded in a shower of fire.

Immediately, Demeter ducked. “Sniper!” Gaius Caphen yelled, as if that wasn’t obvious.

A hail of fire immediately hurtled into the barricade. Bolters and flamers cleansed the roof, leaving only bare plascrete. A broken corpse let out its last defiant yell before it realized it was gone. The rush of excitement faded from Demeter’s body, both the pleasure of the brief conflict and the pain at Jaenispius’ fall- he had been a brother, to the end. There was pain, too, at the fact that the sniper’s death had been brief and pointless. There should have been something more.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Demeter asked with a smile. “Let’s win this!”

They charged into the columns of the governor’s residence, a wedge driven into the building’s core. Chunks of material showered the ground around the Astartes; white flakes fell like snow. In now-lilac armor, Solomon Demeter continued to charge.

Thunder greeted the wall’s collapse, as the Emperor’s Children rushed into the great hall, weapons drawn, screaming in vengeance.

A giant greeted them.

“Stop,” Fulgrim said, and Demeter screeched to a halt.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” the Second Captain immediately said. The cause of Slaanesh was no reason to disobey his Primarch-Demeter did not see even almost as far as Fulgrim. “I was… there was a sniper. Jaenispius is dead.”

Fulgrim’s white face turned- blue, Demeter could swear, though how that was possible was unclear. His face swiveled back at the governor, who was cowering in his chair. “Jaenispius is dead!” the Phoenician screamed, and there seemed to be azure wings- wings of fire- hovering above his back. “How do you explain this?”

“I- I had no control over whoever- over the sniper,” the governor mumbled half-heartedly. He did not look like he even cared whether he would survive. “Whoever he or she was, they acted on their own initiative. I was here all along, remember?”

“I remember,” Fulgrim said. “And so you will live.” Shocked relief was clearly visible on the governor’s face. “You will live, but you will remember this!”

The Primarch drove his fist into the governor’s side, and held it there. There were a few brief movements that Demeter couldn’t see, and then the man wept in pain so horrid he couldn’t even scream. Fulgrim chuckled.

“You will remember this,” he said, and ushered Demeter to leave.

Demeter felt a twinge of regret as they walked to the shuttle. The governor was not really a worthy object of Fulgrim’s wrath, as he saw it- only a pathetic little man. He should never have been there.

Nevertheless, Demeter was nothing next to his Primarch, and this was no time to debate.

“Jaenispius is dead,” Fulgrim said. “Yet another Captain lost. Carelessness, Solomon; carelessness dooms us all. Arrogance… we are not all-powerful. We are not perfect.”

“But we are on the right path.”

“That we are,” Fulgrim stated with a small smirk, “that we are. And Lucius will do a fine job of returning to the Captaincy.”

“So his sentence is over?” Drastasius, one of the 13th Company’s Sergeants that had accompanied Demeter, asked the Primarch.

“Of course,” Fulgrim said. “I should never have been so harsh in the first place. I broke the Brotherhood of the Phoenix for his mistake in worship.”

“Well, brothers did die.”

“They shouldn’t have.” Fulgrim straightened, lifting his head; Demeter hadn’t even noticed it had been slightly bowed. “It doesn’t matter. The battle is won; my Legion is growing once more. As soon as we return, I will call the Brotherhood of the Phoenix once more, and welcome Lucius back into its ranks. I have listened to Kaesoron’s worst side too much; Lucius deserves to be welcomed back. His swordplay….”

There was no dissent. How could there be, in these grey streets under a brilliant sky? Serpentile had been conquered, and Lucius’ offense was long past.

The procession came into the shuttle, and then Serpentile was a green plain under endless space. The edges of the surface curled, and as the shuttle carried the Emperor’s Children to their flagship, they fell away, tracing clouds behind themselves. The plane was a circle, an ever-shrinking circle below the Astartes and their father.

It was not as if the landscape was uniquely fascinating, but the colors of Serpentile were especially vibrant, and that was enough. Demeter felt at peace.

“Boring,” Anapene claimed, “isn’t it?”

“Subtle beauty is often more perfect than radical… than Laeran.”

Anapene shrugged. “The battle’s over. Do you realize how boring all of Ultramar is, really? It’s a realm of moderation.”

Demeter shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with moderation. In most things.”

With a grunt, Anapene sat down. Demeter did likewise. Serpentile was by now a tiny dot twinkling in the void; but turning his gaze upward, the Second Captain saw an expanding blotch on the stars. The shuttle was approaching the Pride of the Emperor.

A flash of sunlight illuminated the belly of the flagship, a rim of violet zooming through the Battle-Barge’s armor. Light ricocheted off the microscopic indentations, charging through space and returning to Demeter’s eyes as a reflected rainbow, or a monochromatic blot. Massive paintings lit up on the surface of the Pride of the Emperor, some created by the Phoenician himself, others by the founding brothers of the Legion.

Then the shuttle veered, and a rectangular-sectioned tunnel opened up. The Pride received its citizens happily, as the shuttle glided into its predetermined spot on the deck.

The Phoenician had, of course, already called the Brotherhood. Therefore Demeter simply marched out of the shuttle, for once slightly behind his father. Fulgrim’s eternal cloak floated behind him, tinted the palest blue today. Or perhaps Demeter’s transition period was not yet over, and his eyes were just playing tricks on him?

The doors into the Heliopolis swung open- Fulgrim had not opted to enter by the Triumphal Way, but rather by a more direct route. Demeter had been honored by the opportunity to follow his Primarch. Lucius, walking some steps behind, seemed to take it for granted.

The doors into the Heliopolis swung open, and the Phoenician waved his sons to their seats. Only after Demeter and Lucius were in place, and mild muttering had covered the amphitheater, did the Third Primarch come in.

“Welcome,” Fulgrim simply said, and sat down.

“Why is Lucius back among us?” Kaesoron immediately responded.

There was a shower of whispering at the outburst; Fulgrim said nothing. Only when that whispering died down did the Primarch deign to answer. “Why,” he asked, “must he be punished forever for an error he made in the service of Slaanesh?” There was an outburst of cheering, but the Phoenician stopped it with a thrust of his arm. “But there is a more sober reason, Julius. Jaenispius is dead.”

No whispering followed that news. Kaesoron simply nodded, still upset; but he did not make another retort.

“The campaign of Serpentile was a victory, I take it?” Vespasian asked.

“It was, naturally,” Demeter said. ”Lucius was wondrous on the battlefield- though not nearly as perfect as the Phoenician, of course.”

The newly restored 13th Captain answered with a simple “humph”.

“And why,” Abranxe asked, “should we care? Why are we wasting our time on Agri-Worlds that two Companies could take without difficulty?”

“Stop,” Vairosean said, but for whatever reason Abranxe didn’t listen.

“We must split up,” Abranxe said. “Where are we going next, in any case? A research station inhabited by-”

At this point, Abranxe realized his stupidity and shut up, but it was too late. The Phoenician had already gotten up from his seat, walking- perhaps stomping- over to the Captain’s seat.

“Pardon his stupidity,” Demeter said. A moment later, Heliton finished the same sentence.

“This meeting is over!” Fulgrim roared. “Leave to your appointments! There’s a limit to everything! Don’t worry, I will not kill one of my sons for this- but this is… maddening. How do you not understand, Abranxe? How do you not understand?”

The mention of execution stilled the room, even as the first Astartes started getting up to exit. Fulgrim would never do that- never even consider this- but he had just…. Dissenting voices were vital for a leader to hear.

“And just in case you didn’t hear,” the Phoenician said, “we’re going to Carenn next!”

Fulgrim stopped, and Solomon Demeter stood up. Ranks of benches glided by as the Second Captain focused his eyes on the entrance to the Triumphal Way. The Brotherhood of the Phoenix was weak; there was only the Primarch now.

Step followed tired step, and then Demeter was surrounded by dripping metal. The gilded skulls grinned, and the Second Captain couldn’t help but grin too as he realized it was time to visit Ostian Delafour. The sculptor had been increasingly shut within his chambers recently, so Demeter had little idea what his new creation was; but it was sure to be fascinating.

He vaguely remembered requesting a tragic sculpture, which he somewhat regretted now. Still, there was certainly a place for tragedy in the world.

Mostly for other people, but not exclusively.

Demeter wandered through the remembrancer decks. With a frown, he put his helmet on; the smell was, surprisingly, still as disgusting as he remembered, though it was weaker now.

Then again, many of the remembrancers had been leaving the fleet in recent times. Even the post-Laeran artists had become less popular. That was for the best; but it was clear that the leakage would need to stop soon.

He walked by decorated walls, none with the geological impression of the Triumphal Way but each plastered in its own way. The overall impression was of a rainbow, a never-ending cascade that cartwheeled through the hallway. It was utterly disorganized on the medium scale; but there was a certain large-scale order from the room arrangements, and on the small scale the artists could create their own patterns.

The walls whited out once more, and then- in the distant reaches of the remembrancers’ section, where he could take off his helmet once more- Solomon Demeter saw Ostian Delafour’s studio.

He kicked open the door.

Delafour was sitting in a simple chair, gazing at a nearly rectangular block of Schrekd rock. Hearing Demeter slam the door open, the remembrancer grinned.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

“You too.”

Delafour’s eyes drilled into Demeter’s forehead, where the most prominent symbol of Slaanesh was tattooed. “Welcome, welcome… so. I have the sculpture you asked for- the tragic one. Give me a moment….”

The remembrancer shuffled over to a corner, where a nearly blank canvas- Demeter recognized it as Serena d’Angelus’ last work from an inscription in the lower left corner- blocked the view of what was clearly a statue.

When Delafour rotated the upright canvas, the full scope of the statue it hid was revealed. It was an Astarte, one of the Emperor’s Children, life-size, kneeling; his boots ground human skulls into the ground beneath his boots, but a toothy grin was etched into his face.

“Wonderful,” Demeter said. “Delightful!”

“You find it thus?”

The Space Marine shrugged. “Not all that tragic, but that’s okay. I’ll have it installed soon- I mean, unless-”

“No, no,” Delafour said with a sigh as he sat back down, head in arms, “it’s fine. No, listen- there’s something else I wanted to ask you now. I- I’m leaving.”

“Leaving the fleet?” That was shocking.

Delafour nodded. “I feel quite… unsafe. I do not feel like a remembrancer, Demeter; not anymore. My inspiration is gone. But my request was denied. Demeter, could you… it’s a big favor, I know, but could you ask to have me let go?”

That was insane. “Delafour, why do you want to run away so soon?! We’re only getting started!”

“But-”

“No, no. The greatest war in human history is beginning! Don’t you want to sculpt it?”

Delafour did not choose to respond; he had, Demeter assumed, recognized his error. So the Second Captain gave a final bow, struggling not to laugh, performed a quick spin on one leg, and galloped out.

No. My transition period is over. Right? Demeter felt a pang of- not fear, Astartes knew no fear, but something all too similar. The mood swings should have stopped! Or was this merely a sign of Slaanesh? Was there a difference?

Was this the end?

Hearts beating in a crescendo of doom, Solomon Demeter took out his chainsword. He could end all of this right now, indeed. But why would he? Why was he even considering suicide?

Demeter shrugged and turned on to blade. He inspected the craftsmanship, zigging and zagging it in front of his face. Was he mad?

No, that didn’t matter. He was Slaaneshi; that was enough. With a triumphant grunt, the Second Captain tossed the whirring blade into a wall.

The sword sparked. The corridor collapsed.

The artificial gravity was pulling the plasteel down. Rubble pelted the Space Marine, even as he sprinted out of the damage zone. It appeared that he had hit some sort of important support.

It didn’t matter. The collapse was local; after getting out of the blast zone, head ringing from one of the pieces’ impact, Demeter looked back and caught no glimpse of violet. His brothers were safe. There was no siren, either, meaning the hull hadn’t been breached- there hadn’t even been an explosion.

There was only one remembrancer, hilariously trapped in the rubble - hanging upside down in a pose reminiscent of an overdramatic artwork. Demeter observed him closely, hand on chin. Still, within seconds, the human had worked himself out of it, dropping onto the floor below.

Relaxed, Solomon Demeter walked out of the remembrancer wing.

He walked back to his room, still confused. Should he have done something differently? And how could a single sword have such an effect, anyway? There was a spark- it didn’t seem to be electrical in nature.

Turning around to admire his completed painting on the Luna Wolves- Emperor’s Children clash, Demeter shoved the painful thoughts out of his mind. This, not any sort of internal collapse, was his life. War, only war.

“Children of the Emperor,” he whispered. “Death to his foes.”

All of the clashing Astartes were entangled in death, but only the Emperor’s Children truly knew it. Death, much like life, was a form of perfection.

Death and life. Pleasure and pain. All was one.

It was awesome, in both senses of the word.

This war was awesome.


	23. Chapter 23

“Report this to Fulgrim if you desire; some would call this treason. But we live in strange times; and it is long past time for me to speak of the future. This is Julius Kaesoron. This is Order Omega.”

The First Captain of the Emperor’s Children took in a deep breath. He was speaking to six Companies now- his own, Krysander’s, Tarvitz’s, Astarune’s, Korander’s and Onurry’s. Perhaps not all of the Captains would believe him, but some among their Companies, at least….

Maybe this wasn’t the best way. Kaesoron had never pondered any act like this; never strategized on the organization of a rebellion. It had seemed a waste of time.

“Let me make this clear: I have heard, from the ears of Fulgrim himself, that the Phoenician supports the worship of Slaanesh- in all its debauchery- for all the Legion. The Emperor’s Children have fallen, brothers. This is the end.

Flee to the shuttles, and descend onto the surface of Carenn. Look around you; is this truly the Legion that once brought the wonder of enlightenment to a galaxy filled with superstition and slavery? We have become worse than those we once fought. I will turn my hearts to the Warmaster’s cause. For Horus Lupercal, true brothers. For humanity.”

It was done. And as Carenn tumbled through the void below, Julius Kaesoron leapt up from his seat, clipped his powersword to his belt, and started the run to the shuttles.

Ispequr Davars jumped out from behind a hallway corner ahead a moment later, also fully armed, though yet helmetless. The second-in-command grinned upon seeing his leader.

“For Lupercal,” Davars said. “I’m glad you’ve returned. Are we ready?”

“I’ve beamed my collection of poetry to external repositories. Arms… well, no one was expecting this, were they?”

“Neither us nor our enemies. You shocked everyone, Julius.” Davars’ grin turned down. “This means the end of the Legion, doesn’t it?”

“I think you overestimate our support. The Legion has fifty-four Companies; I contacted the six that I felt I had a chance with.”

“That few?”

Kaesoron slightly nodded as he took off again, steering towards the deck. Mosaics filed by, and Kaesoron considered that this was the last time he’d be seeing them.

At the same time, these were about the only such designs untainted by Laeran left on the entire Pride of the Emperor. It was wrong to leave the Legion- to betray it- but there was nothing here for him, or for anyone else. It would be the greater wrong to stay, to do as he had done before and fight for humanity’s dusk.

In fact, he had destroyed quite a bit of the rebellion’s infrastructure, Kaesoron reminisced as he sped by ever-worsening art ever-closer to the deck. Guilliman would hardly welcome him. Still, a Primarch would be intelligent enough to accept a few thousand Astarte defectors as what they were- a gift.

Besides, entering with bolters trained on their former brothers would gain the Lions trust.

“Any more orders, Captain?” Davars inquired.

“Put your helmet on,” Kaesoron recommended. “There’s no telling what the Legion might yet do to us.”

When the First Captain- no, not the First Captain, not anymore- stole his next glance back, Davars’ visage was covered.

Floor by floor, passageway by hidden passageway, the leaders of the Lions of Chemos made their way into the depths of the Third Legion’s flagship. With every step they drew a bit closer to freedom; with every step their betrayal became a bit more irrevocable.

“I will atone for my mistakes,” the First Captain said, jogging down a flight of stairs.

“You sound like Vairosean,” a new voice came from the landing.

Assault Sergeant Wasnus stood below, his Squad- minus one Marine- surrounding him. They, too, were fully armed, and as Kaesoron reached and zoomed through the landing, they fell in step with their Captain.

“Rebellion,” Wasnus said. “I understand there was no choice, but….”

“The Legion is composed of torturers and madmen,” Davars stated.

“So is the Imperium,” Kaesoron put in.

No one responded.

The procession sprinted through another couple of hallways before reaching the shuttle bay.

“Drop-pod?”

“No,” Kaesoron said. “I have an appointment to make.”

The Squad climbed into the shuttle, and Julius Kaesoron passed a last nostalgic look at the Pride of the Emperor’s interiors. He recalled arguing with Eidolon, an eternity ago, about the hangar’s decorations. That was before Laeran, before the daemons corrupted everything; there was still disagreement back then, but it was less… deadly.

And then Davars nudged his Captain, and Kaesoron walked up the final stair into the shuttle’s interior. They had escaped interception, at least thus far, but there was no time to waste.

The vessel- the Penetrating Light of Eternity- charged through the deck. Its doors opened automatically, twin behemoths sliding apart ever so slightly; as the Light dove ever-closer, the gap appeared to widen, and then the shuttle was in the void of space.

“To the Andronius,” Kaesoron ordered. “Rylanor will be on our side.”

At least, he certainly would be if he knew what Fulgrim was doing to the Legion. The Ancient could feel a lie, so Kaesoron hoped he would be able to convince the greatest Dreadnought- indeed, the greatest warrior- in the Legion.

If not- well, though Kaesoron would yet kill his gene-brothers, he knew he could never do that to Rylanor.

The shuttle raced parallel to the decks of the Pride of the Emperor. Titanic guns and exquisite art, still unaffected by the curse of Laeran, gazed at the Astartes fleeing their father. They were mute; they did not complain.

This was where Kaesoron would begin his song of the disaster. The rhythmic cannons, towers, and windows; the wavering murals and sculptures. They came together to create a mighty image, one Kaesoron was still proud of- he had helped in its creation, after all. But within that shell of glory, the Emperor’s Children were rotting, turning into a Legion of heartless sociopaths.

Soon they would crawl out of that shell, as out of a broken egg. Then, Slaanesh would truly have his portion.

But it hadn’t been Slaanesh who unleashed the World Eaters on Prospero. It hadn’t been Slaanesh who had bombed the beauty of Venus IX to nothingness. The Emperor of Mankind, beloved by all, was the ultimate root of darkness.

“Pandemonian,” Davars swore by the hell of Chemos mythology. “They’re heating up the guns.”

“Took them long enough.” Kaesoron had felt almost insulted by the fact that the Legion hadn’t responded to his revolt. “Full speed ahead, evasive maneuvers, et cetera. We’re close enough to the batteries that good piloting should be able to get us safely out of here.”

The next moment, Julius Kaesoron was thrown to his left as Wasnus took the order to heart. The shuttle charted a tumbling path through the firestorm, pounding through nothing, twisting the knife into the flesh of dark space.

The Andronius was already visible in the distance, a steady violet wedge. It would be unchanged, Kaesoron suspected; Rylanor was, in the end, a traditionalist.

And Rylanor had not been at Laeran. But, of course, neither had Demeter or Vairosean; and Kaesoron had been in the final temple, but was still loyal to humanity over daemonkind.

“We’re out of the storm,” Wasnus said.

“Get us to Rylanor,” Kaesoron said. “Nothing else matters right now.”

The shuttle accelerated to speeds it was never created for, and the former First Captain felt regret at bringing about the end of a venerable craft; it would be severely damaged by the maneuvering. He regretted every bit of this betrayal, really; regretted it even as he completed it.

The wedge grew in the viewports, and then the doors on its belly automatically slid open, granting the Lions of Chemos admittance. The shuttle clipped into the gap, revealing an entrance hall decorated with statues of dead Astartes.

They had been Initiates all, Initiates whose death Rylanor blamed himself for. Kaesoron knew, because he had been here two months ago, when Eidolon had tried to convince the Ancient to rejoin the front lines. Kaesoron knew, because the entire Legion knew, or at least the entire Brotherhood.

Kaesoron knew, because Rylanor had been accused- mostly by Eidolon, the arrogant bastard- of being a Horusian sympathizer; and that claim would be true, if only Rylanor knew of Horus’ rebellion.

The shuttle screeched to a stop; the ramp fell out. Kaesoron jumped onto the stairs, leaping down onto the plasteel surface of the Andronius’ hangar, and then the Squad was running for the ascent, charging into battle without battle against the forces of destruction.

“You’ll be creating something new, you know,” Davars noted. “Not a Legion, something smaller, but-”

“I never wanted this, Davars.”

“Only Slaanesh had.” Davars turned his helmet to lock visors with his Captain. “But you have received this, whether you want it or not; so look to the future, Brother-Captain, not the past.”

“Sage words.” Kaesoron nodded, even as Sergeant Wasnus slammed open the massive doors to the Hall of Rites.

A dim, melancholic expanse revealed itself. Rylanor’s curved chassis stood at the chamber’s center; marble monuments to the dead charted rings around the Ancient. The circles turned to squares closer to the hall’s boundaries.

Rylanor did not move as Wasnus came in, followed by the rest of the Squad, even as the walls resonated with the sound of the slam. For a moment Kaesoron entertained the concept that Rylanor was dead, but then reality reasserted itself as the Dreadnought rotated through the grayness, even as Kaesoron walked up to the Ancient.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?” Rylanor inquired.

“Ancient,” Kaesoron said. “The Imperium is spiraling into madness. The Emperor of Mankind has betrayed humanity.”

“EXPLAIN.”

“The Emperor has declared himself a god. He is obliterating the worlds that refuse to worship him. He has allied himself with dae- with Warp creatures. One of those, the self-entitled god Slaanesh, has caught the Third Legion in its snares. The Legion has resorted to killing its own, to extreme modifications along the lines of Fabius’, and to torturing civilians.”

“I FIND THIS HARD TO BELIEVE.” It was hard not to quiver at Rylanor’s voice penetrating the air, shaking everything around the Captain of the Lions. “AND FULGRIM?”

“Fulgrim leads the Emperor’s Children into madness.” Kaesoron paused for a moment, to catch his breath. “Horus Lupercal has led ten Legions that remain loyal into rebellion. I mean to join them.”

“YOU ARE NOT LYING. BUT SURELY YOU ARE MISTAKEN.”

Julius Kaesoron reached up for words, for something to clear Rylanor’s doubts- and then there were new footsteps at the doors.

“SAUL TARVITZ,” Rylanor noted.

“Kaesoron,” Tarvitz said, with only a nod to recognize the great Dreadnought. “You have to stop this right now. It’s not too late.”

Kaesoron swerved to face the Tenth Captain. “Don’t you see, Tarvitz? The Legion is going to hell.”

“We cannot do anything.” Tarvitz seemed on the brink of tears, though Kaesoron suspected that was an illusion. “We must follow the Phoenician, Brother-Captain. It’s the only thing we have left.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Kaesoron said. “We can still build.”

“No,” came a new voice that Julius Kaesoron recognized as belonging to the Thirteenth Captain, Lucius the Debased. “Tarvitz is right. You have to stop.”

One look at Lucius, even in the grim light, cleared away all doubt regarding the state of the Legion. The inappropriate tattoos, the sporadic cilia, the mutilated skull affixed to the Captain’s helmet….

But Lucius was here. And that meant that Kaesoron had to run. And he had had such hopes for Tarvitz….

“You have to die,” Lucius pronounced with an eerily high voice, taking out his bolter.

“No!” Tarvitz shrieked.

Lucius was a quick draw. Kaesoron saw the Thirteenth Captain’s hand pull the trigger, but there was no time to dodge. Tarvitz saw it, too, but earlier due to his experience with Lucius; and the Tenth Captain leapt.

Kaesoron saw all of it. Lucius pulled the trigger, aiming at the statues’ center, either Kaesoron or Rylanor- the Thirteenth Captain didn’t care which; the First Captain’s own clumsy attempt to dodge; and Tarvitz, halfway between the door- where Lucius was- and Rylanor’s position, jumping, throwing himself onto the deadly line.

The shell hit the center of the Tenth Captain’s reinforced neck, and Saul Tarvitz crumpled to the ground, gone forever.

“Join Kaesoron…” Tarvitz whispered into his vox, and then there was silence.

As warriors from the Thirteenth Company ran up towards the Hall of Rites’ entrance, Lucius smiled at the death of his friend.

“Unfortunate, but deliciously ironic. You’re next, Kaesoron.”

But the former First Captain was already weaving through the statues, keeping course for Rylanor’s back door. The Dreadnought himself was already rushing in the same direction. Squad Wasnus was horribly outnumbered, but they fired back as they retreated.

There was a firestorm in the midst of the Hall of Rites.

Kaesoron ran without looking back, though not without firing back. His leg felt a rogue shell, but he kept up his pace. In the background, there were screams, the unending smell of bolter smoke, and the taste of death.

Brother against brother, for the fate of humanity.

Kaesoron reached the door, slightly limping; it was already open. He jogged down the stairs as the sounds of battle receded. Davars was there, but Wasnus was gone, killed in the melee. Rylanor came onto the top landing five seconds later, smoking from a dozen places but still moving.

“THEY AREN’T PURSUING,” the Dreadnought said. “I ASSUME YOU HAVE A SHUTTLE?”

Kaesoron nodded. “We can borrow Lucius’ if they ruined ours.”

The Space Marines- not really Emperor’s Children, not anymore- passed the rest of the way in silence. Their shuttle was indeed ruined, but Lucius’ was easily large enough to house all of them.

Kaesoron climbed into the pilot’s seat and started the engines.

“Rylanor, will you be-”

“I’M FINE.” There was a brief pause. “BUT THIS…”

Even Rylanor was speechless. Nothing was clear anymore. Julius Kaesoron was a traitor to his Legion and the Imperium.

And he knew, above all else, that he was right.

The shuttle raced into space, and Kaesoron veered it towards the surface of Carenn. The Hive World shimmered below, a splotch of life in a hostile universe.

“To the First, Ninth, Tenth, Thirty-Second, Thirty-Seventh, Fortieth Companies,” Kaesoron voxed. “If you are still with me, remember this: do not hesitate to fire upon those who were once your brothers. They are monsters now, little better than daemons themselves.

We fight for the Warmaster. But for that, we must fight. And also, Saul Tarvitz-

Saul Tarvitz is dead.”


	24. Chapter 24

Julius Kaesoron had betrayed the Emperor.

Marius Vairosean stood at his desk, staring at the data-slates tracking the former First Captain’s escape, unbelieving.

Kaesoron- Julius Kaesoron. He had not been Vairosean’s greatest friend, ever, constantly devoting more energy to the written word than to the roaring gun. But he had been the First Captain of the Legion.

It was unbelievable, unimaginable, unfathomable. Fulgrim, for all his pride, had not been able to keep his First Captain- his First Captain- in line! Perhaps Fabius had engineered Kaesoron’s implants to allow this betrayal, the third Lord Commander playing some hidden game. Perhaps it was a more complicated plot, one involving Slaanesh.

Either way, the Legion’s incompetence was stunning indeed, though Vairosean knew he shouldn’t be surprised. This was, after all, the way of Fabius.

Marius Vairosean, Third Captain of the Emperor’s Children, picked up his helmet. Unknowingly, Julius Kaesoron had created the perfect distraction for his own escape. The Emperor needed to know what had happened here.

But who could one trust to help in such an endeavor? Vairosean wasn’t sure about anyone, but Isitan Loisekuas- Vairosean’s second-in-command- was as close as possible to an ally.

“Address to: Isitan Loisekuas only,” Vairosean addressed his helmet. “Loisekuas? Come to my office.”

“Executing,” came the reply, and the feed cut off.

Vairosean stared into the machine-eyes of the helm. His focus was weak now, at the moment where it mattered most. So he concentrated on the dead visor, mentally demanding answers from the metal.

“What are you, really?”

It was a bucket-shaped chunk of ceramite, with some wiring on the inside. It was a tool for Marius Vairosean to use in achieving the aims of the Emperor, beloved by all. It was a defensive measure against weapons aimed at its owner’s head. It was an Astarte helmet. It was a thing.

Things were more reliable than people. Flesh could tear, or indeed be perverted into betraying its owner. Machinery could be hacked. Everything was flawed; no matter how hard Vairosean looked, he could not see perfection, the true perfection that Fulgrim the Phoenician had once believed in, in anything but inanimate objects. Perhaps that was what attracted his brothers to art?

But art, too, could break. Perfection could not be found in physical objects. Perfection was thoughtful action and active thought; creative destruction and deadly life. Perfection was the plan and the battle. There were simply no other terms in which Marius Vairosean could think of it.

“I’m not much of a philosopher, though,” the Third Captain said to no one in particular.

“That you are not, Brother-Captain,” Isitan Loisekuas said as he entered, “but I find it hard to believe you want to be one.”

Putting down the helmet, Marius Vairosean turned around to face his second-in-command. As always, Loisekuas was impeccably groomed, almost serpentine in his features, and seemingly satisfied with life.

“What is it?”

Vairosean let out a tired sigh. This was almost over, but “almost” was intangible.

“The Phoenician has betrayed the Emperor.”

“Really? I thought that was Kaesoron.”

Loisekuas could really be difficult sometimes. Vairosean had specifically picked him out for his difference, and they made a great team; but sometimes….

“Kaesoron too,” Vairosean stated, “but Kaesoron went over to the Warmaster’s side directly. Fulgrim… Fulgrim has been corrupted. Slaanesh and Fabius Bile have changed the Legion, with the Primarch’s cooperation, to make it incapable of following the divine mission the Emperor has set out for it.”

“You lie,” Loisekuas said with a grin.

“Are you joking? Can you not see?”

“Yes, I can see! I can see a fossil in front of me, a man who has failed to keep up with changing times. A man who can no longer keep up his Captaincy. A traitor. I will take your place, Marius Vairosean; and you- you will die today.”

And with a grunt that somewhat resembled a battle-roar, Isitan Loisekuas lunged at his Captain.

Him, too.

Vairosean took the impact on his chest, knocked back by his second’s momentum. Breathing was uncomfortable; raising his arms, Loisekuas grasped at Vairosean’s neck; Vairosean saw the maneuver coming, thrusting an arm to bat aside the attack. The rest of the room, the rest of the galaxy, the maelstrom of treachery and corruption that had led to this- all of that didn’t matter right now. Right now, Marius Vairosean was in a fight for his life.

The Third Captain drove a punch into Loisekuas’ stomach as the Astartes’ heads collided. Roaring, Loisekuas responded by copying the maneuver, then pushing Vairosean away. The elder Marine scrambled back onto his feet, glaring at the man he had once trusted with everything.

“Thank you,” Loisekuas said as he did likewise, beginning to circle against Vairosean, “for giving me the perfect route to promotion.”

“Was there a reason for your betrayal besides ascending in rank and favor with the Phoenician?”

“Progress, Vairosean. Why in the world would I back a-”

Loisekuas ceased talking as he realized Vairosean was barreling down on his position. Blows rang on ceramite. Vairosean grappled the younger Astarte’s side, shoving the two of them onto the floor.

They clattered along the floor, weaponless but still superhuman. The Third Captain rolled the duo towards his table; as they went, the room rang with impacts. Vairosean calculated dozens of possibilities, tilting his arms and body to avoid the worst of the punishment. Loisekuas was faster, but less focused. In skill, they were comparable.

Vairosean drove his gauntlet at Loisekuas’ face; the other, knowing he could well be crushed, ducked. The Third Captain took the chance to grab his helm, tossing it into the air.

“Are you like Demeter?” Vairosean inquired. “Did you devote yourself to Slaanesh when you looked into the insanity of its home?”

“Demeter wasn’t converted when he looked into that illuminator, but earlier, when he realized he was disobeying the Phoenician. Then again, not even that recognition is likely to save you.”

The Third Captain caught the helmet onto his head, the defense rolling into place within seconds; a moment later, its clasps were tightened. Loisekuas swatted aside Vairosean’s attack from his left arm, which slid helplessly down Loisekuas’ ceramite. Vairosean’s follow-up punch with his right fist was similarly rebuffed, but the Captain responded with a headbutt up the center.

A metallic helmet met a face of flesh. Moments later, the back of the latter head met the floor, as Loisekuas tipped backwards.

Shaking his head, Marius Vairosean flung brain matter off his helmet. Then he took it off, and took in the sight and smell of his closest comrade- his closest brother- lying, head crushed, on the floor of his office.

Vairosean took it in, knowing he had created it.

Time was running out, now. Turning around, Vairosean noted that most of six Companies had already escaped with Kaesoron. Over seven thousand Astartes, betraying the Legion and- far more importantly- the Emperor.

The Captain stumbled away from Loisekuas’ body as the battle-haze receded. It was done; and there was definitely an answer to whom he could trust- no one.

“Honor,” he said nevertheless. This had been a weaponless duel; yet Loisekuas was clearly expected fighting to break out. Perhaps there had been some semblance of a just mind left within the second’s brain; now, though, any such imprint was spread on the floor. Marius Vairosean had killed it.

It had been the right thing to do. And there was no time to hesitate, not even as much as Vairosean already had. After a moment of scrubbing, the Third Captain put his headgear back on while running out the door.

Doors and bulkheads marched past as Marius Vairosean headed through the innards of the Pride of the Emperor, nose turned towards his personal escort vessel, the Eidolon. Vairosean had named it after the Lord Commander upon Eidolon’s ascension according to an odd Legion tradition, rather unwillingly.

The tradition in question was now dead; after Verona’s execution, Vairosean had approached Lucius with the concept of naming a ship after Fabius; the Thirteenth Captain had laughed. Custom had toppled, as had all of the Legion.

Vairosean cut into the armory, grabbing his best powersword and clipping a few grenades onto his belt. Then he was dashing once more, now on a straight path for the hangar where the frigate Eidolon, and escape, awaited.

Vairosean came out on the deck on an uplift, a catwalk that slashed across the expanse. It was a slick black path, from which a plane of brightly colored- even garish- spaceships presented itself. The Eidolon was at the path’s far end, and as Vairosean passed the other ships he noted which were missing. Some were escaping with Julius Kaesoron; it did not appear many were chasing the renegade First Captain.

But as the Captain turned right to descend to the hangar’s main level near the tube leading to the frigate, which hung docked at the side of the Pride of the Emperor, he was shocked to find ten violet-armored figures surrounding the entrance.

“Brother-Sergeant Terogil?”

Terogil turned his helmet- Vairosean had recognized it by the inscriptions- to his Captain. “So you are coming!” the Sergeant said.

“What- what are you here for?”

Now it was Terogil’s turn to stumble. “Um, whatever you’re here for. The others are coming- the ones who will follow you no matter what. We know you’re planning something; we don’t know what, but you’re in the right.”

“You’re here to go with me?”

Terogil nodded.

“Then I should inform you where I’m going. Though he is unaware of it, Fulgrim has betrayed the Emperor. The implants of Fabius Bile are ruining our Legion’s ability to serve the Imperium. The Phoenician is helping to disassemble the Emperor’s Children.”

Again, Terogil nodded. “And you’re going to warn the Emperor?”

“Precisely.”

And as Terogil climbed into the umbilical tube, Vairosean saw the others come up. Duasnian, Iridius, Quesetlio; ten Sergeants, though less than ten Squads.

“At your command,” Assault Sergeant Quesetlio noted.

“We are fleeing the Legion in the service of the Imperium,” Vairosean began, and once again detailed the mad situation the III Legion now found itself in. It should have been tiring to explain himself yet again, but the news that some of the Third Company would indeed follow him was far more heartening than it was exhausting.

“So be it,” the unhelmeted Duasnian replied, catching a look around the assembled Astartes, daring anyone to defy him. “Terogil is coming too; he’s late.”

“As always,” Tactical Sergeant Pirolecpio interjected.

“Actually, he’s already on the Eidolon,” Vairosean stated. “He’s the reason I haven’t left yet.”

Duasnian’s eyes bulged.

“Let’s go,” the Third Captain stated. “Before they come after us.”

And the procession- seventy or so Space Marines- marched through the connecting cord. They marched for Terra and for the lost glory of Chemos; they went to warn the Emperor of news so dire it could scarcely be believed, but news that was undoubtedly true.

They entered the Eidolon and took their spots; Iridius took the pilot’s seat. The cords fell away, aged ropes fading into the belly of the Phoenician’s flagship. The Eidolon was free.

The violet wedge veered away from the Pride of the Emperor, heading perpendicularly, straight for the system’s jump point. There was a bit of fire, but nothing that even came close to hitting the frigate. And then the decks and towers of Fulgrim’s flagship were all no more than a dark lilac dot in the vastness of the void.

Stars and nebulae hung overhead, dots and splotches of light signaling in a language few understood but all required. Carenn- a slightly larger dot than the rest- wavered far to Vairosean’s right. The Warp jump point itself was an tiny, unclear blotch on the distant lights, one which was pain to look at (but not insanity- there was something special about the Demeter incident; perhaps it was just a rumor).

“Escape successful, Brother-Captain,” Iridius stated when it became clear no one was pursuing. “Navigator Orfesius is ready. Heading?”

Marius Vairosean smiled, though it was a tragic smirk. “Terra.”


End file.
